


Please Stay

by DarkLadyAthara



Series: The Ladies of Marvel [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Captain America: Civil War (Movie) Spoilers, F/M, Hiding in Plain Sight, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Pre-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Quote: I'm with you 'til the end of the line, Secret Relationship, Secrets, Winter Soldier Bucky Barnes, pizza dates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-03
Updated: 2017-04-26
Packaged: 2018-08-28 17:59:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 54,543
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8456314
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkLadyAthara/pseuds/DarkLadyAthara
Summary: A Marvel Cinematic Universe FanFictionWhen the nameless man showed up in Iris' doorway holding out the ad she'd placed looking for a new temporary tenant, he was nothing at all like anyone she'd ever encountered; dangerous. He just felt dangerous. But more than that, he felt lost. A part of her knew she should close the door in his face. But for some reason that didn't stop her from handing him the key.He was only looking for a temporary place to lie low, a place to lick his wounds after what happened on the doomed Helicarrier and regroup. A temporary place where he could maybe begin to pull his shattered mind back together and begin to remember who he was... he'd been called Bucky? Then he’d run far and run fast from Washington DC, because while he might have his free-will back for the first time in far too long, he's still the best at what they trained him to do.What he didn't anticipate was the stubborn, independent young woman who was letting him stay in her skinny townhouse.***Same 'Story-verse' as "The Ghost" though it's not necessary to have read it to enjoy this one!





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: This is based solely on the Marvel Cinematic Universe live-action films. Nothing from comics, animated films or animated shows with barest hints, if any, to the live-action shows. The MCU and all recognizable characters are sadly not mine. I only own my tweaks and my characters. If they weren't in the movies I made them up.
> 
> This story is also posted on fanfiction.net and Wattpad under the same title and penname.

Tortured. It was all Iris could think as he turned, thanking her with a terse almost-smile as his gloved fingers closed around the key she had just handed him.

She knew it was probably a bad idea to rent out the apartment just like that to a random—and dangerous looking—guy who essentially walked in off the street looking for a place to stay, but she hadn't even considered refusing. Not really. There was something about the way he'd looked at her, or rather, tried not to look at her directly, that for some odd reason reassured her. She knew it was a foolish thing to do, both renting out the rooms and (mostly) trusting him based on that look alone, but her brain wasn't agreeing with her gut on that.

Besides. She needed the money. She wasn't ready to sell her aunt's house yet but she couldn't quite afford the payments to keep it unless she rented out the apartments on the bottom two floors of the skinny old townhouse. And that meant staying on as the landlady her Aunt Lynne had been. On top of that, there was no way selling it would bring in anything close to what she would have needed to pay off what was owed on the house anyway. Not the way the neighbourhood was trending. No. Keeping the house and making the payments was actually the more manageable option just now.

So here she was, accepting this man as a temporary tenant when, judging by the look of him, her instincts should be screaming 'definitely not, lock and bar the door fast.' But they weren't; though keeping her wary, her instincts were for the most part unconcerned with the scraggly appearance, the wrinkled multi-day old t-shirt under a nearly ragged hoodie, the unshaven scruff, the solid and muscled bulk, the tangled dark hair shielding his eyes and the bone-tired but desperate look this man possessed. He looked like he'd just been through hell. Though, considering the chaos that had gripped Washington DC the last couple days, that perhaps wasn't surprising.

She knew the sorts of people who were looking to rent a small apartment for cash in this neighbourhood were usually bad news. She'd had a few. There was one, even, that she'd had to call the cops on... hadn't that been fun… But maybe this guy was just down on his luck after the S.H.I.E.L.D. Helicarrier fiasco. Maybe his place had been destroyed and his insurance was simply refusing to pay. God knew he wasn't likely the only one. She knew from others she was friendly with at work that that had very much been the case with people displaced after the alien thing in New York.

But on that her instincts disagreed. There was more to this guy's backstory than his place being trashed by a Helicarrier falling from the sky. It was one thing years in the restaurant industry had given Iris; she'd come to be a pretty good judge of character. She knew she was right when she pegged this man as dangerous. It was all in the way he moved and the way his eyes automatically darted to exits and resources and disadvantages of her house's hallway. But she also knew she was right when she read his concerted effort not to make eye contact as a mix of nerves and a desire not to be noticed. And shame. Shame and grief. She could all but feel the two emotions swirling around him. Though for what she couldn't even begin to guess.

And he looked so lost…

So she'd agreed to rent him the second apartment when he'd knocked and simply handed her the ad she'd placed in the paper, mumbling after a moment to question if it was still available. The paper cutting had the look and feel like it had been out in the rain, which made her wonder if he'd been forced to scrounge for a paper through the trash. Sympathy had flooded through her when she'd considered that.

Not even a few minutes later she was handing him the key. Then she'd gotten a good look at his face. More specifically his eyes. They were dark and fathomless...and tortured. One look at those blue eyes nearly had her shivering at the intensity in them. But she shook it off, placing a hand on the door to close it behind him. Then a thought struck her that suddenly had her scolding herself at letting this puzzle of a man distract her.

"You didn't tell me your name," she said as she followed after him, brushing a hand against his left shoulder to get his attention even as he took a step down the stairs that led from her part of the house. She gasped as her fingers brushed against him. What should have been warm, firm muscle was hard and cool. It was metal. She couldn't help but gape as she realized there was metal beneath the worn fabric of his hoodie.

He paused, his head cocking slightly in her direction as she took an unconscious step back. But he didn't look at her, and he only paused long enough to respond with a short, clipped and unmistakable despondent tone.

"It's better for you if you don't know."

And then he was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

It was several days before she saw him again. She was deep in an argument over a very late rent payment with her other tenant, Chris—or was it Conor? Caden? He seemed to change it every time she saw him, which was making her more and more unnerved around him as the days passed. It was getting to the point where she was considering an anonymous call to the cops again to get rid of him like she had to with the last problem tenant she'd had. There was very little chance he wasn't into something illegal, what with the changing name, the sketchy associates, the late night 'meetings' or the odd bags that were either weirdly empty or stuffed full. Iris bit back a frustrated sigh as Chris did his best to stare her down. She didn't know how her aunt had done it. She was getting sick to death of this landlady thing.

It was getting heated enough that Iris was seriously considering cutting her losses and making a tactical retreat. But when the verbal abuse started up—again—something in her snapped and she'd had enough.

"Get out," she said quietly, each word slow and pointed. "I want you out. Consider yourself evicted. Pay up what you owe when you hand in your key and I won't consider calling the police." He only laughed.

And then his hand slammed into the wall next to her head and Chris was leaning in close, using his not insubstantial height and bulk to close her in. She wasn't about to shrink away, though. She'd learned that, in most cases, standing firm in this sort of situation ultimately had whoever it was trying to intimidate her backing off once they realized the tactic of getting up in her personal space wasn't going to work.

But before she could see if Chris was going back off or not, a gloved hand had him by the scruff of the neck and was hauling her problem tenant off his feet and into the wall across the entryway. Iris couldn't help the strangled yelp at the sudden and violent motion. With a crack filling the entryway as the drywall split, Chris crumpled to the ground, his surprised face flying up to latch onto the emotionless one of Iris' as-of-yet nameless tenant. The mystery man loomed over Chris, staring down at him with a cold, intent look in his eye, his gloved fists clenched tight enough that the leather was creaking loudly in the abrupt silence that accompanied his appearance.

With a snarl Chris staggered to his feet and lashed out with one of his own fists. It never reached its mark. With a snap motion the nameless man had easily caught Chris' fist and twisted it away, sending its owner crashing into the wall again. Iris winced not only at the painful sound, but also at the crushed wall panel, now little more than pieces of drywall barely held together by the aging wallpaper. That was not going to come cheap to fix…

His outrage growing, Chris was already preparing to lurch to his feet again when one of those gloved fists closed around the collar of his shirt, jerking him to his feet. Iris' mental repair calculations were shunted clear from her mind as the nameless man all but lifted Chris off his feet with only one hand, leaving only the toes of his expensive sneakers brushing against the ground. The two men were nearly of a height, though Chris was perhaps an inch or two shorter than his adversary. Chris was not a slight guy, having an additional fifty pounds on the nameless man at least. Which was saying something, since even beneath his loose and hard-worn clothes, the mystery man was all broad, hard muscle. But with one look into the nameless man's face, the crass stream of expletives slowed and froze in his mouth at the cold stare fixed solely on him.

"You will pay her what you owe and leave." The mystery man's voice was soft and cold. Chris' face grew sickly pale as Iris watched in bewildered astonishment, her mouth wide open in a most inelegant way. Then, his lip curling in disdain—the first hint of emotion since he appeared—the nameless man's fist loosened and Chris fell to the ground. With a whimper, he was scrabbling to his feet and bolting down the stairs to the basement apartment he occupied.

Not even breathing heavily, the nameless man watched him go. Only when the door slammed shut with the force of Chris' panic did Iris' rescuer turn to her. A flicker of concern lit in his eyes beneath his charcoal grey ball cap as he looked at her. Iris' mouth slammed shut with an audible snap of her teeth. Still pressed against the wall, she was still nearly too stunned to move, though she could feel the muscles in her calves beginning to tremble. It wouldn't be long before the tremors moved up her body and she was shaking in the aftermath of the adrenaline this man's sudden appearance had sent spiking through her.

"I had it handled," she snapped out involuntarily, her own panic suddenly manifesting in irritation. The corner of his lip twitched and for a split-second Iris was certain he was about to smile. But he did incline his head, ever so slightly, acknowledging her assertion before taking a step back, grabbing up his plastic bag of food—what looked like perhaps two or three cans and a microwave dinner, Iris noticed with a pang—and turning to go.

Hating herself for her snippy reaction, she let her head fall back against the wall with a dull thud before wrestling her pride back under control. She was grateful and apparently she had a horrible way of showing it to this man.

This dangerous, damaged, compelling and, she couldn't deny it, attractive man.

"Thank you," she managed to call out after him. Like the day he'd first appeared on her doorstep, he paused, his head tilting in her direction even if he didn't actually look at her, before continuing on his way and disappearing into his rented apartment.


	3. Chapter 3

Chris was gone the next day and Iris found the envelope with its hastily stuffed rent payment shoved beneath her door when she got home from her shift that afternoon. She couldn't help but laugh as she fingered the crumpled bills before her thoughts shifted to her mystery—and now only—tenant. As she hip-checked her door wider to get through with her full hands she ran over the previous day's encounter, replaying the memory over and over. She never would have expected the nameless man to stand up for her like that, or to such an extreme extent. She supposed it should have frightened her, how scared Chris had been at just a look from the man. But when it came to Chris, Iris was hard pressed to muster any sympathy anymore; he's been a thorn in her side for weeks.

But instead her thoughts were easily getting sidetracked by the way he'd moved to almost shield her from Chris, or the way his muscles had visibly bunched and flexed appealingly, even through the loose material of his faded canvas jacket. He'd looked better than that first day, looking like he'd gotten at least a little sleep in addition to cleaning up and shaving, though there was still an enticing shadow of stubble that Iris had always found rather attractive in men.

Her thoughts were only interrupted when she very nearly dropped the takeout container balanced precariously on her arm as she kicked her door closed behind her. With a quick shrug and shift she managed to keep her dinner on her arm, but it sent the bag of groceries clutched in her other hand swinging painfully into her knee.

Swearing softly, she managed to wrestle her armload onto the nearest counter of the kitchenette without too much trouble. Letting out a sound of relief as the pressure on her hands and arms from her different bags eased and blood rushed back to her cramped fingers, she pushed the groceries aside to get at the take out. Free leftover chicken parm from work; it was a perk that Iris happily took advantage of. Food that she didn't have to pay for meant one less thing she needed to spend her money on, after all.

But as she flipped the Styrofoam lid open her eyes fell on the bag of groceries sitting slumped and spilling on her cheap laminate counter. Unbidden, the image of her nameless tenant and his mostly empty bag of food reappeared in her mind's eye. Though the scent of the pasta and chicken, even cold, was making her stomach grumble, her appetite had quickly diminished at the memory of her mystery tenant standing between her and Chris and the nearly empty grocery bag.

The pang of sympathy from the day before renewed its insistent press.

Nearly without deciding to do so, she was snatching up the takeout container and popping back out of her apartment. Within moments she was down the stairs and standing in front of her mystery tenant's door, hand raised to knock. It was only then that she hesitated. The man was very obviously incredibly private; he hadn't even given her his name for Christssakes. How was he likely to feel about her appearing at his door, even if she was bringing food?

But before she could reconsider, the door had inched open, revealing the suddenly very tall and very intimidating man she had come down to thank and—hopefully—feed. He looked down at her with an unreadable expression, the shadowed bags under his shuttered eyes that she remembered from the first time she'd seen him seeming even deeper in the dim light of the hall. Swallowing thickly as a bout of nerves sparked through her she struggled to think of something to say to break the suddenly tense silence.

As those steel-blue eyes bored into her hazel ones she thrust the takeout container in her hands in front of her in offering.

"I thought you might like something a little more—um—well, something a little nicer than dinner out of a can." A faintly quizzical light flickered in his eyes as he continued to watch her, not even bothering to glance down at the food she was holding out to him. After a moment she huffed, starting to feel rather self-conscious when he wasn't saying anything.

"I'm all set, thanks," he finally said quietly before taking a small step back, obviously intending to close the door.

"Wait," Iris blurted, nearly dropping the container as she reached out one hand as though about to grab at the door. The veiled look coming over his expression again, he paused, though not before she caught a trace of curiosity there. For a moment she turned a few options for what to say over in her head before giving up with a frustrated sigh and just letting the words spill out.

"Look, I wanted to thank you for what you did yesterday. I didn't do a very good job of it at the time and I feel bad about that. You didn't have to do anything, but you did anyway. And, well, food. I, uh..." the words stumbled to a halt as his brow suddenly furrowed. At first she thought it was in annoyance, but after a moment she realized it was confusion. He hadn't been expecting her to thank him, or to be grateful for what he did. That elusive lost look that she'd caught a glimpse of when he'd first shown up at her door reappeared and, just as she had then, she wondered what his story was. She cleared her throat to get her brain back on track. But then she frowned as a thought struck her.

"Wait, how did you know I was out here? I hadn't knocked yet." He blinked in surprise at her sudden change of subject, the mask of indifference falling away. After a moment he shrugged, surprising her a little as he answered.

"I heard you," he said simply. Iris was taken aback at the confession. The corner of his lip twitched. "The stairs up to your apartment creak...a lot." At his explanation Iris found her cheeks flushing. She should have guessed that; she'd been very aware that the old steps were irritatingly noisy. She grimaced.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled, "you're not the first one to complain about it either. I'm sorry if it bothers you." He frowned again, a dimple forming between his eyebrows as the confused look returned.

"I wasn't complaining," he said, sounding genuinely puzzled.

"Oh." Now it was Iris's turn to be surprised again. They were just trading surprise back and forth, weren't they. She cleared her throat again, switching back to her reason for bothering him as she remembered the container in her hands.

"Anyway, food. I brought you food. Think of it as a thank you." She thrust it toward him again, knowing very well that there was now an eager look on her face. It was an expression that had always made her aunt snigger at how silly it looked but had almost always given into anyway. This time he did glance down to the container, his nostrils flaring as though trying to determine what it was from scent alone. But he didn't reach out for it. In fact, he looked downright wary. She held back a giggle.

"It's not going to bite," she teased, wiggling the container at him a little. But her grin faded at the stricken look in his eyes as he looked back up at her. She could feel the blood leaving her face at the realization that he was wary of strange food...and not because of something as banal or commonplace as allergies or dietary restrictions.

What had this man gone through?

"Sorry," she muttered, "it's just chicken parm from the restaurant I work at." With a terse but still apologetic look he reached out, tentatively taking the container from her.

"Thank you," he said quietly back. Shooting him an apologetic smile of her own she took a half-step back, fiddling with the enameled flower on her necklace.

"No problem," she replied, waiting for him to retreat back into the apartment she was renting him. When he didn't move to close the door, she cast about for something to say to fill the awkward silence and bring the odd conversation to an end. Something she found she was abruptly reluctant to do.

"Sorry for interrupting—err, bothering you. And thanks again." Nodding absently to herself, she turned, heading for her noisy set of stairs.

"Buc—James." She froze, spinning to face him at the sound of his voice. There was something almost uncertain to his tone, and he looked sheepish as he looked up at her from the Styrofoam container still clutched in his gloved hands. "I'm James." It was an endearing look, and it broke through the grim cast of his features, bringing a friendly, charming light to his face. She couldn't help the smile that came to her face at the expression.

And as her final surprise of the encounter, he smiled back.


	4. Chapter 4

It had quickly become rather a routine; every couple days she would bring him something from the restaurant, sacrificing her free meal to make sure he got something not straight out of a can or a flimsy plastic tray. Even the odd time that he hadn't been home, having disappeared for a few days or so, she'd brought him something, either waiting until she thought he'd come back or simply leaving it outside the door for him. She hadn't even meant to do it and Iris certainly hadn't intended for it to become a routine. But still, something in her compelled her to offer. She felt the need to help this man, James, and the only way she knew how just now was with food.

She also felt the need to simply see him. She certainly hadn't realized that was the case at first. She'd only realized it on one of her days off a couple weeks after that first dinner delivery, when she found herself wondering if it'd be too weird to bring him something she'd made herself. She'd shaken her head something fierce as that particular insight hit her, scolding herself soundly as she tried to dismiss the idea. It was ridiculous. She barely knew the man. He barely said more than ten words to her each time she brought him food and most of them were along the lines of 'thanks.'

But that didn't seem to stop the way she was becoming more and more drawn to him as the weeks passed. Attached, even. She was growing to look forward to the involuntary little tug at the corner of his mouth that made her think he was near smiling, or the surprised look in his eyes every time he opened the door to see her bringing him food. A little part of her heart always broke at the reminder that life had to have been hard for him indeed for such a small kindness to surprise him. But the growing gratitude in his characteristically guarded expression gave her all sorts of warm fuzzies.

And that wasn't even counting the way her heart had virtually stuttered when she realized the last time she'd brought him dinner he'd looked pleased to see her. He was slowly beginning to open up for her. She'd gotten two more real smiles since that first one and she found herself treasuring each one like it was a gift. And the time before last he'd asked with something close to a mischievous twinkle in his steel-blue eyes if there was any chance she'd brought him a burger. She'd been so stunned he'd actually started to look worried that he'd overstepped on her kindness and had begun stumbling through an apology before she started giggling.

The next time she'd brought him a burger.

He'd actually laughed.

It had been a small, hoarse sound, like he hadn't laughed in a very long time, but it had set a jumble of butterflies loose in her belly that hadn't quite managed to settle since.

Today it was pizza. She'd had a craving for pizza and, upon stopping for her own pie, she'd spontaneously picked up a second. Usually she only got a single pizza and that would serve as a couple meals for her, so the impulse to grab the second took her a little by surprise. At least until she caught herself heading back down toward James' door with the second one, all the while considering how even if he didn't finish off the whole thing in one go—which was not out of the realm of possibility given what she knew of the appetites of men with the body-type and level of muscle mass he had—it would leave him with a second meal, or at least a snack; she was nothing if not practical that way.

As soon as he opened the door the corner of his lip was tugging and the wary tightness around his eyes eased. With a smirk she held out the pizza box, nearly giggling at the way his eyes first widened with surprise and then crinkled with amusement as he reached out for the box. As he cracked open the box he shot her a mischievous glance.

"Pepperoni?" She scoffed at the questioning tone.

"Of course. Is there anything better than the classic?" A faint, breathy chuckle escaped him as he looked back down at the pizza, a nostalgic glimmer in his gaze.

"I haven't had pizza since...since I was back home, before..." he trailed off, his brow furrowing a bit, his gaze growing shadowed and distant as though trying to remember and not liking what emerged. Iris watched him curiously.

"Where was home," she finally asked, the despondent turn of his expression causing a flicker of unease in her. It was apparently enough to jolt him out of wherever his thoughts had disappeared to. His eyes flashed up to her again, blinking for a moment to sort through his thoughts.

"Brooklyn," he finally answered softly. "I'm from Brooklyn." He didn't sound entirely sure, Iris noted, and she could almost feel the _I think_ at the end of the sentence. Clearing her throat, she shot him a hesitant smile, unconsciously beginning to fiddle with her necklace again.

"Well, I've never been to Brooklyn, or New York, for that matter, so I don't know if this is going to be as good as pizza you get there, but I think it's one of the best in DC, so..." she trailed off at the trace of a grin appearing on his face.

"It looks great. It smells great," he supplied when she didn't continue. It brought the smile back to her face.

"Good." With a final smile she turned to head for the stairs.

"Why a sunflower?" she paused, spinning at the hesitant but curious cast to his tone. He looked up from the half-open pizza box. At her startled look his eyes flicked for a moment to the small enameled sunflower necklace resting on her breastbone, the corner of his mouth tugging again until it stretched into a grin. "Why a sunflower? Why not an iris?" He smirked impishly. Iris was dumbfounded. He was actually smirking at her. He was teasing her. Iris grinned back in disbelief at him before gathering her thoughts enough to answer.

"I, uh—I was born in the spring and my mom, on her way out the door for the hospital, noticed her neighbour's irises were blooming. She wasn't the most imaginative of women," she said with an amused glint in her eye, "she loved irises, though. And she loved the colour purple. She thought, given the timing, that it was some sort of sign or something. Hence her choice for my name. Funny thing is," she fixed him with an impish grin that managed to draw another unwitting smile from him in return, "I don't like irises at all. Maybe it comes from the whole being named after the floppy little things." A faint laugh rumbled in his chest before he nodded toward the necklace again.

"But why a sunflower?" She reached up to brush her fingers against the necklace again, her impish look shifting to one of remembered affection. He watched her, his gaze growing thoughtful.

"My Aunt Lynne loved sunflowers, and I was much closer to her than I ever was with my mom even before my mom died. It was hers. She died a few months ago," Iris explained quietly, her tone faintly wistful. "This was her place too. I, um, I took over for her...after." She glanced at James, his teasing expression fading as she spoke.

"I'm sorry," James offered after a moment. She nodded in acceptance, somehow managing to murmur a small thanks as the overwhelming feeling of missing pushed in at the edges of Iris' thoughts. Clearing her throat and giving her head a little shake, Iris brushed a few of her dark curls back from her face before pasting a bright smile on her face in an attempt to shake the sad mood talking about her Aunt still sent her into.

It faltered when James took a half-step forward, the hand not holding the pizza box twitching for a moment, as though he'd been about to reach out to her. She eyed the movement curiously. The air seemed to grow tense, though not in a way that made Iris uneasy. Rather, it made her want to move closer. She looked up at the man in front of her, still standing in the doorway, still holding the pizza box she'd delivered even as he watched her with concern and sympathy written across his usually stoic features. But his eyes were just as intense as always, and just now focused solely on her. For a split-second she felt like she was about to drown in those eyes.

The sound of a passing car horn outside shattered the moment, nearly causing Iris to jerk. James glanced for a second toward the front door of the building, his wary look reappearing for an instant before turning back to Iris. She cleared her throat again, not quite allowing herself to meet his gaze even as she felt a faint flush warming her skin at the way she'd been staring at him and he'd been staring back. She gestured toward the stairs, taking a step back as she did.

"I, um, I should probably go. I—you should eat that before it gets too cold," she stuttered awkwardly. He nodded, his lip resuming its familiar tugging expression as his gaze dropped back to the pizza in his hands. But again, as she turned for the stairs, she didn't get far.

"You could—stay…" she glanced back at him over her shoulder at the sound of his voice, now faintly rough with a sudden and surprising onset of nerves. He cleared his throat himself before trying again: "you could join me. If you wanted to. You don't have to, if you have plans...or something." The crease in his brow returned as he stumbled over his offer. Again Iris was dumbstruck, not expecting him to have asked anything of the sort. It took a few tries for her to manage to answer him, her mouth opening and closing in a way that she imagined looked somewhat ridiculous. But then she met his eye as he chanced a glance up at her. The look there was a cross between anticipation and reservation. Her teeth caught the corner of her lip as an idea sprung to mind.

"Okay," she finally answered, nervous herself as she offered her own suggestion. "There's a nice view of the neighborhood from the back fire escape. It's a great spot for pizza and it's a nice evening." A trace of the impish grin returned and, in a chivalric gesture she wasn't sure she would have expected, he stepped back through the door and gestured politely for her to lead the way.

With a grin, Iris did just that.

The next day, Iris came home from work to find a pot sitting outside her door with a tiny green sprout poking up through the dirt inside.

And sticking out of the dirt next to the sprout was a little paper tab with a tiny picture of a sunflower.


	5. Chapter 5

The last thing Iris had expected was for James to show up at her door.

And she certainly hadn't expected him to be holding a bag of what looked like take out or for him to ask her to follow him. But he did and with an intrigued grin she had followed.

That was how she had ended up on the roof of her aunt's house, looking out over the neighbourhood next to James eating burgers that, while perhaps a touch cold, somehow managed to be the best burger she'd had in a long time. Licking the last crumbs of bun and smudge of mayo off her fingers she hazarded a glance at her companion. Long since finished his burgers, he was leaning back on his hands, his long legs stretched out before him and crossed at the ankles as he looked out over the urban landscape in front of him. He had that distant look in his eyes again that Iris was starting to think of as his 'trying to remember' look. It was a look that spoke of deep concentration as well as a sense of loss.

The more time she spent with him, the more convinced Iris was becoming that this was a man who was looking for something while trying not to be found at the same time. He'd let it slip that day a few weeks before when they'd shared his pizza that he'd been travelling, even making it as far as Brooklyn, since he'd taken out the apartment he'd rented from her. But whatever it was he was looking to find, she got the impression he hadn't found it yet. Whatever it was, it was bothering him that he hadn't made any sort of progress. Iris might not know him that well, but she could pick up on that easily enough. She crumpled up the wrapper still in the hollow of her crossed legs before stretching out herself, reaching briefly in the direction of her toes to loosen up the tense muscles of her back before relaxing. It was a companionable enough silence between them, the small talk that they'd traded back and forth—mostly about her job or her so far futile search for a new tenant for the basement apartment—as they ate having tapered off several minutes before.

"So what gave you the idea to have a picnic on the roof," she finally asked. It startled him a bit, causing his shoulders to tense before he visibly forced them to ease. He glanced over to her, taking in her interested look. That almost-smile tugged at his lips again, though his eyes were quickly shrouded in memory again. She sat a little straighter. After a long moment he took a deep breath, his voice catching slightly at first as he began to speak, a trace of a smile on his face.

"Growing up, my best friend and I used to do this all the time; climb up onto the roof at night—usually his building since it was easier not to get caught there—and watch the city go by, talking about nothing and everything. Trying to solve the problems of the world the way two teenage boys thought we could or trying to figure out how to talk to girls. Mostly girls," he amended, chuckling a little. Iris watched him with a giggle of her own, fascinated by the way he lit up as he relived those memories. "Even in Brooklyn the city never quite seemed to go to sleep, and the lights from Manhattan in the distance were something else. He was so small—tiny really, a bit of a runt—but he always refused help getting up there.

"We were always there for each other…" His nostalgic look faded into something wretched and pained as he trailed off, the distance in his eyes seeming almost to go in and out of focus as the thoughtful crease between his brows returned. Iris felt her own grin fade as she watched him, finding herself growing sad at the return of his lost look. "...to the end of the line," he murmured, picking up and finishing the thought from a moment before. Iris almost didn't hear him, and likely wouldn't have realized he'd continued had she not watched him say it. It was said so quietly it was more him mouthing the words than speaking them. That last bit meant something to him, the way he said it giving her the odd impression that he'd been repeating the phrase to himself for a while. She leaned forward as she studied him, loosely hugging her knees as she did.

He nearly glanced over at her again when she moved, barely catching himself as he seemed to be debating something, a conflicted expression shuddering briefly across his face. Finally he sighed, drawing his own knees up and resting his forearms loosely over them, his gloved hands clasping lightly in front of him. Iris watched his long fingers lace and flex and tighten, absently wondering why he was always seemed to be wearing gloves.

When he did break the silence, Iris wasn't sure she could've been more caught off guard by the sudden change in topic.

"What do you know about Steve Rogers?" She tore her attention from his hands, her cheeks warming as she realized she'd been staring, glancing at him quizzically. He was still looking off and away from her, his steel-blue eyes intent but distant. She could only blink in bewilderment. That seemed abrupt. She cleared her throat the instant she realized she'd been staring again, turning her thoughts instead to wrack her brain. That name sounded familiar...oh...

"You mean Captain America?" A faint but bitter smile tugged at his lips, but he still refused to look at her even as he nodded in confirmation. That was curious. "Not much, really. I know he was in New York and that he helped save us from that alien invasion thing. And I know he was involved in that S.H.I.E.L.D. thing a few weeks back, you know, with the Helicarriers?" A quiet sound reminiscent of a depreciating snort escaped him, drawing an involuntary frown of bewilderment to Iris' face. She thought for a minute, her fingers fiddling with her necklace as she often did when she was lost in thought, before remembering something.

"He has an exhibit or something—there's an exhibit about him, I mean—at the Smithsonian right now," she shrugged as his brow creased and he glanced surreptitiously her way, "I hear the ads for it on the radio at work all the time. It'd be as good a place as any to find out more about him, I imagine. I've been meaning to go for ages."

After a long moment he nodded, a terse expression she imagined was intended to be thanks playing across his face as he tried to hide a flicker of disappointment that had Iris wishing she had more to tell him. Her frown deepened with alarm as his expression grew darker, his hands no longer loose but curling into tight fists, the muscles in his arms and shoulders tensing. "I—I can't—" his voice, though still quiet, was just as tense as his frame, the timbre coarsening until he was nearly snarling in frustration, "I can't remember—I can't—I need to remember." It was obvious he wasn't talking to her anymore, his frustration abruptly mixing with dejection. He just sighed heavily, sharply carding his long hair back out of his face. Iris nearly flinched at the violence of the motion. But the gesture did little and almost immediately the problem strands had fallen back into his face. She bit back the way her breath hitched in helpless sympathy at the discouraged expression warring with his irritation. She wanted to say something, but what? What could she say to that? There was nothing. Nothing that wouldn't sound patronizing or inadequate or outright insensitive, especially as she had no idea what was going on inside his head. She had nothing to say that would ease how conflicted he looked. So she said nothing.

Instead Iris reached out, tucking the closest lock back behind his ear. With a jerk James glanced over at her, startled and looking suddenly uncomfortable, even embarrassed by whatever it was that had overcome him just then. She gave him a reassuring smile back before laying the hand that had just been threading through his hair on his shoulder. It was only the second time she'd touched him so purposefully after that first day. She could feel him tense under her touch but he didn't flinch away.

So she left it there. And as moment after long moment passed, he slowly began to relax again. Around them the early evening had grown late and the sky had begun to darken, while the city seemed, in some ways, to grow brighter as streetlights and headlights and porch-lights came on to illuminate the night. Above them the quarter-moon shone dully in a sky half-lit by the city around them. But it was just clear enough that, despite the man-made light pollution, a few twinkling stars managed to prick through the murky dimness of the night sky. Even as Iris noticed their appearance it seemed they had caught James' attention too, drawing him more firmly away from the darkness of his thoughts only moments ago.

"As a kid I barely realized there were more than a couple stars in the sky; the light in the city was just too much." She was surprised when he broke the silence again after what had just happened, looking back to the lost man beside her for a moment. "I knew, I think, how many stars there were really, but I'd never pictured it or bothered to imagine what it would look like." He fell silent again for a moment, still looking up at the sky, and though he was lost again in memory, his gaze was focused this time. "The first time I saw the night sky, all the stars, away from the city, I could barely breathe. I'd never seen anything like it before."

Iris couldn't help but smile softly at how peaceful he sounded. There was no shadow on that memory, no long lost best friend, no secret dark thoughts; just the memory of something beautiful. She found herself leaning against him, her arm threading around his so her hand was nestled between his forearm and his side as she scooted closer. He was solid and warm, his body heat chasing away the chill that was beginning to cool the air as evening gave way to night. He shifted a bit in surprise, glancing down at her.

But he didn't pull away. She smiled, still gazing up at the sparse smattering of stars.

"I remember seeing them once, in the country, I mean," she offered after a moment, her voice just as memory-laden as his had been, "when I was a kid. I went with one of my friends and her dad. It was the only time I'd ever been camping. Only time I'd ever been out of the city, really. I don't think I've seen them like that since. They really were beautiful. Someday, I imagine, I'll see them again. I'd like to, at least." She felt him shift again beside her, still watching her, drawing her attention away from the stars and back to him. His dark eyes were midnight pools, drawing her in as she met them. Her breath hitched as his gaze flicked almost of its own accord to her lips. Involuntarily, her tongue darted out to moisten them even as her own gaze was drawn to his.

And then he was mere inches away and drawing closer, pausing close enough that she could feel his breath ghosting against her skin. Her pulse began to thrum, her breath catching at his proximity.

But then he was pulling away, a flicker of distress surfacing in his eyes before he hid it behind an unreadable, fathomless expression. Disappointment threatened to bring a frown to Iris' face, but when she caught sight of that flicker it faded away leaving her wondering sadly at how the prospect of a kiss could leave him feeling so vulnerable. It was funny how he could be completely unreadable and yet utterly transparent.

"Maybe someday I could take you," he murmured wistfully after a long moment, looking up to the sky again. There was a hopeless longing in his voice that suddenly had her eyes pricking, but she forcibly ignored it. She didn't want to think on the dejected certainty he had that it was never going to happen, no matter how much he might want it. Instead she tightened her hold on his arm and looked back up to the handful of stars fighting through the city loom, laying her head on his shoulder.

"I'd like that," she murmured back.


	6. Chapter 6

Nothing had changed and yet everything had. Iris still brought James food, though every now and then he'd return the favour. And as more days passed and turned into more weeks, he grew more comfortable around her still. Enough so that he was now spending a couple evenings a week in her apartment, just passing the time in her company whether it was watching some TV or writing in a small black journal while she tried her best to deal with the bills, bookkeeping and paperwork that came along with being a landlady.

But now he was especially careful not to touch her. Not that he would push her away if she reached out to him even though he would quite often flinch or tense, but he was never the one to reach out first. Looking back, Iris realized he'd always been conscious to keep his distance but it had become quite obvious to her now in the weeks since he'd nearly kissed her.

On some level, the fact that he'd pulled away should have stung a little. With anyone else, she'd have seen it as a rejection. But she just couldn't see it that way coming from James. He'd seemed so genuinely nervous, frightened even, to kiss her. At first it had confused her like crazy, to the point where she'd found herself on several occasions getting lost in her own thoughts trying to muddle through what had happened to make him hesitate. There was no denying the attraction. She'd felt the pull toward him nearly from the beginning and that had only intensified the more she'd gotten to know him, limited as that might be in reality. And she was pretty sure now that he could feel a pull toward her in much the same way. He had to. Didn't he?

There were times when she wasn't so sure. Times when he'd seem to barely react to her when she'd knock on his door with dinner. But there were yet other occasions where it seemed like he had been waiting for her, or like he could barely seem to keep from reaching out to her or keep his eyes from her. Times when smiles seemed particularly easy to pull from him. Times when he seemed at ease.

He would relax around her. And the more time she spent around him the more she came to realize that that alone was a big deal. On occasions where they would eat together or simply sit together out on the fire escape or in her apartment he would gradually relax the longer they were together.

He liked her. She just knew it. And she knew she definitely liked him. Far more than she'd ever liked anyone else at this stage of a relationship…if she could even call it that. Their conversations covered small talk, trivialities and daily observations and occurrences; nothing deep and nothing personal, really, save on her end. Starting that first night as they ate their pizza and continuing through subsequent dinners, she'd gradually opened up about her aunt, her home, living in DC her whole life, and eventually, herself.

He, meanwhile, had told her very little about himself, really, preferring to let her do most of the talking. She had learned a little, though, like that night with the pizza when he'd revealed he was from Brooklyn. Since then, the odd story about his own childhood and youth had come out; he'd been athletic in school, but had also enjoyed the challenge of academics, while after that he'd boxed for a time and had even tried to coach his best friend—with mixed results due to his friend's poor health and small stature—he'd been embarrassed to admit there were times he'd found the process immensely funny, but it was evident to Iris that he'd greatly admired his friend's determination despite it all.

Still, it wasn't much; barely enough to make the claim that she knew anything about him. There were times she wasn't even sure she could realistically call it a friendship.

But she did anyway. She considered him a friend and she considered herself his friend, even if he might not allow himself to see her as such.

And part of her wanted to be more.

But why had he kept himself from kissing her? The more she thought on it, the more Iris kept coming back to the things he'd said that night.

_I can't remember—I can't—I need to remember._

It hit her one day as she was watering his gift to her—the little sunflower sprout, though still little, was growing fast—that that was likely at the heart of it. There was something dark in his past. That much had been obvious the first time she'd met him. More than that, he seemed to genuinely be missing…something, and he was afraid of what it was. She also knew he was hiding something else, something about his past and who he was. That also had been blatantly obvious since day one. Only now the stakes were higher than during those first few days. Her dinner delivery had seen to that…

There were times she could swear she saw in his eyes that he was afraid of her learning the truth when he thought she wasn't looking. He was afraid of getting too close to her because he feared what she'd do if that ever were to happen. She could understand that on some level.

No matter that they hadn't been super close, her mom dying had hit her hard when she was a kid and she had begun isolating herself as a means of self-protection, afraid of losing someone she cared about again. It had taken her aunt to pull her out of it, slowly coaxing her to accept that the fear of losing someone wasn't a good enough reason to be alone. She had fallen back into that defense of isolationism when her aunt too had died, enough so that her boyfriend at the time had quickly grown frustrated with her and simply left. Not that the relationship had been in great shape at that point anyway.

She could recognize that urge in James; that he was caught between wanting to push her away but also not wanting to lose his only companion…his only friend. She didn't want him to push her away, she realized with an odd flutter in her belly.

But she was also realistic. He was hiding from someone or something. He had the look of a man being hunted. Worse, he had the look of a man who was used to it. She could see it in his posture, in the way he was always at least a little wary when they sat out in the open on the fire escape. He was always ready to run.

And he was beginning to grow restless. She knew deep down that it wouldn't be long before the need to keep moving became too much for him. As it was, part of her wondered at how he'd been able to stay in one place so long already. It had been weeks since he'd first arrived at her door, or rather, a couple months now, to be honest. He'd never planned on staying long; the sleeping bag she'd spied on the bed in his apartment and the two small bags—at least—that he had stashed in corners spoke to that. She supposed his little trips like the one he'd made to Brooklyn had probably assuaged that need to keep moving a bit, but that wasn't going to last forever. He was growing more edgy all the time, the slightest sounds outside the house causing him to tense, all senses suddenly on alert. It was foolish to be letting herself get so attached to him, because there was no way she could deny that he wasn't going to be around much longer. And after that...the chance that she'd ever see him again after he ran? Extremely unlikely...even more than getting struck by lightning while riding a shark unlikely.

Probably never.

It made her chest grow tight even thinking about it.

If that wasn't enough to get her internal critic scolding her again… She outright admitted it to herself before. She barely knew him—not that that was easy considering how he barely seemed to know himself at times—so how could she care about him so much? She didn't even know his last name!

But she did still know him, she couldn't help but argue with herself. She knew he was from Brooklyn; that he'd nearly been an adult before he'd truly seen the stars; that, even though it hurt him to think about the best friend of his youth, he was unwaveringly loyal to him; that he loved burgers; and that he was a gentleman who would hold open doors on instinct or place a hand on the small of her back—or near enough, at least, because of his reluctance to let himself touch her—to guide her through the door. She knew that he hated to see injustice and he couldn't stand to sit by and let a bully have their way. She knew he liked and admired how independent she was and also how he'd come to like to taking care of her in his own quiet, polite way. He was a gentleman; it was the best way she could think of to describe him. In some ways she supposed it was an old-fashioned idea—that a man should look after a woman, that sort of thing—that inspired the behavior, but somehow she'd managed to recognize that it was something that was important to him…that it let him feel needed…useful…like he had a purpose.

Besides, it was a weirdly nice feeling. Her last boyfriend would barely think to change the empty toilet paper roll unless she told him to, whereas one day she'd come home to find James cleaning up after patching up the wall he'd all but thrown Chris through that first week. The look he'd given her as she'd approached still stirred up the butterflies in her stomach when she thought back on it. It had been so satisfied yet still vulnerable, like he hadn't quite been sure how she'd take him deciding to fix the wall on his own. And the wide-eyed but pleased look he'd given her when she'd leaned up to place a quick thank-you kiss on his cheek was still making her smile days later.

And it was obviously distracting enough that she jumped when he appeared without warning out behind the restaurant where she worked. Reliving the faint flush that had coloured his pale complexion and the faintly astonished grin as she pulled away was certainly much more pleasant to think on than the two full, pungent garbage bags she was currently hefting out to the dumpster, meaning she didn't notice at first that she wasn't alone in the alley. So when she caught sight of a man leaning against the wall out of the corner of her eye it startled her so badly the bags not only dropped from her hands they nearly flew. It was apparently funny enough that James smirked and even chuckled, earning a glare from Iris as she fought to calm herself back down.

"That was not nice, James," she scolded, her voice still nearly breathless from consciously swallowing back the yelp her surprise had nearly squeezed out of her. Now he was nearly laughing where he was leaning casually against the wall. The only reaction he got was a scowl as Iris unlocked the dumpster with a sharp jerk and flipped the lid back before retrieving the first bag she'd flung away in her surprise. Managing to contain his amusement in the face of her irritation, he straightened, coming forward to grab the second bag even as she heaved the first up and into the dumpster with no small amount of effort; stupid things were big and they were heavy.

"I'm sorry," he offered almost meekly, but Iris didn't entirely buy it, her eyes narrowing at the way his were twinkling in the dimness of the alley. "You're right, that wasn't nice." She huffed, her scowl shifting to a jealous pout at the way he tossed the garbage bag he'd grabbed into the bin with next to no effort at all…

"Not fair," she grumbled as he flipped the lid back down with a reverberating bang, turning expectantly to her so she could lock it back up. Still annoyed, she rather chucked the lock in his general direction, only a little disappointed when he caught it with ease. With a grumbling sigh, she moved to the place on the wall where he'd been waiting for her, leaning against it with a groan as she kicked off one of her shoes in order to massage her sore foot. "What are you doing here, anyway?"

With a failed attempt to hide his smirk, he threaded the lock into place and flicked it shut. He shrugged, his amusement easing into something more relaxed. "I was passing by and decided to stop in. Besides, your shift's almost over, isn't it?" She glanced up at him where he stood, shoulder braced against the dumpster as he watched her. With an absent nod she slipped her shoe back on before sliding her headband off next, ruffling her short curls before rubbing at the spot behind her ear where the plastic hair accessory had been digging into her scalp all day.

"Yeah. I'm just finishing up a couple housekeeping chores before clocking out. You know that dumpster's filthy, right?" Another faint chuckle rumbled in his chest as he stepped away from the large grey bin, his shoes scuffing on the pavement as she finger-combed her hair back into some sort of order. She couldn't help but watch him out of the corner of her eye. There was no denying that he was quite the specimen underneath the thrift store clothes he insisted on trying to hide behind. And he had a mouth that was made for smiling; he had a beautiful smile. She fought against the urge to stare.

"I could walk you home?" She paused in slipping her headband back over her hair—rather riotous by now thanks to the humidity in the restaurant and the busy shift—looking up at him again. There was little trace anymore of the nerves she'd once seen in him when he asked if she'd wanted to eat with him or spend time with him back at the house. But he was distracted about something. There was a tightness around his eyes that gave it away. Her annoyance melting slowly away she nodded, a delighted smile coming to her face.

"Sure. That'd be great." She straightened, brushing her off her hands on the back her uniform skirt before stepping toward the door. "Just left me drop off my keys and I'll be right out." As she skirted past, she brushed up against him. It was unintentional, but she still glanced up in apology. He was looking down at her again, the hard to read expression back on his face. After a moment his lip tugged and he was taking a half-step back to let her pass, his vibrant eyes glimmering beneath the shadow of his dark ballcap. But not before a hand reached up to brush lightly against her dark curls, coming close enough to her cheek that she could have sworn she felt the tips of his gloved fingers on her skin. Her breath hitched at the almost-contact. After a heartbeat he cleared his throat, nearly jerking his hand back to his side.

"I'll be waiting out here," he murmured, shifting his gaze just enough that he wasn't meeting her eyes anymore. With a flustered nod Iris slipped back inside, dropping off her work things and grabbing her purse and jacket. After clocking out and waving to her manager that she was done, Iris slipped out the back door again, her heart trying to jump up into her throat at the sudden persistent worry that he wasn't going to be there, that moment between them having spooked him like their near-kiss had.

But there he was, having resumed his spot against the wall, eyes flicking between the door where he was watching for her and the alley access. That sense she sometimes got that he was looking out for whoever it was hunting him returned, causing her belly to flop uncomfortably. She couldn't imagine living like that...

As soon as he saw her, he pushed away from the wall, falling into step on Iris' left as her feet easily set her in the direction for home. For a split-second he looked like he was about to offer her his arm, his hand twitching as he pulled it back to his side. She pretended not to notice, though she found the idea of the rather chivalrous almost-gesture intriguing.

They were nearly halfway back to the townhouse before either of them spoke, each distracted by their own thoughts, James especially. "I went to the exhibit at the Smithsonian the day after you told me about it. The one for Steve…or rather, for Captain America. And…and I went back again today." She looked over to him with interest. Since that dinner on the roof he hadn't mentioned the Avenger again. Iris had been a touch disappointed at that; she'd found herself googling the Captain a couple times since then with the intention of having more to tell him if he ever asked again. She'd even hoped that, perhaps, they could go see it together. She dug her hands into her pockets, drawing her jacket tighter around herself. It had been warm enough earlier in the day that she'd thought she'd be okay with the light garment, but the evening had turned cooler than she'd anticipated.

"Did you find what you were after?" He shot her a mildly perplexed look that she answered with a shrug. "When you asked about him before, I got the feeling there was something specific you wanted to know." He frowned a bit, his thoughts turning over in his head as he sorted through them before responding. Finally he shook his head, letting out a discouraged huff as he shoved his own hands almost defensively into his pockets. Iris held back a discouraged sigh of her own. He was closing himself off. There was something about Captain America that was troubling him, casting a metaphoric shadow over his features.

"I don't know. I think so," he answered, sounding suddenly tired. She debated asking him to elaborate, worrying the sunflower on her necklace as she tried to decide whether or not he was even likely to do so if she were to ask.

The only sounds around them were from the cars passing on the street on his other side, each one drawing James' unconsciously assessing eye. It was just getting dark enough that the streetlights and the headlights were beginning to come on, the intermittent oncoming traffic nearly blinding the pair as they rounded the corner onto the street where the townhouse was located. Iris shivered, her thin jacket no longer cutting it now that a cool evening breeze that had sprung up. James threw a glance her way, his look questioning. But before he could say anything, she stubbornly shook her head, her hands pressing deeper still into her pockets. He didn't believe her unspoken assurance. The look in his eyes and the skeptical quirk of his eyebrow alone said that. The fact that he then proceeded to shrug out of his own jacket drove it home. Iris' eyes widened as she realized what he was doing.

"Oh! No, James, I'm fine. Really!" But then the weight and lingering warmth of his jacket was being draped around her shoulders. Iris nearly started with surprise even though she knew it was coming. He fixed her with a firm look even as his steel-blue eyes twinkled with amusement. She wasn't quite done yet. "What about you?" For a moment the shadows drew back, and he smiled wryly.

"I'll survive. The cold doesn't bother me that much," he countered lightly. Iris narrowed her eyes at the comment, catching something she couldn't quite put her finger on about his tone. Reading in his face that he wasn't going to budge on this, she sighed before adjusting the jacket across her shoulders. It smelled like him; warm and male with a hint of spice and metal. She couldn't help the deep inhale, settling it closer around her. His grin widened as she did so, a triumphant smirk flickering across his face. She stuck out her tongue at him in mock aggravation, earning a chuckle back.

It wasn't much longer before they reached the house. Pausing at the bottom of the concrete steps, James gestured Iris forward, that familiar tugging at the corner of his mouth warming her and helping to ease the anxiety his persistent conflicted expression had been rousing in her. But his preoccupation with Captain America was still on her mind, especially since it—oddly enough—seemed to be the source of his troubled look. As she was about to open the door, she turned back to him, the man having made it up the steps himself, standing close enough she could feel his body heat radiating off him.

"What was it you were looking for about Captain America?" The question was apparently unexpected enough to take him by surprise, his eyes widening by a fraction and his eyebrows lifting as he looked down at her. Just when she began to think he wasn't going to answer he took a deep breath, his mouth opening. But before he could say anything, the wail of tires screeching over the pavement had them both jerking around toward the sound.

It was the only warning they had before the sound of gunfire echoed through the street.


	7. Chapter 7

The sound of gunfire exploded with deafening bursts around them, echoing off the rows of townhouses. Iris barely had a chance to so much as gasp before a solid, heavy body was wrapped around her, nearly shoving her to the ground while crushing her within the tight grip. An involuntary shriek did manage to tear from her throat as that very body shuddered with a pained grunt, the high-pitched, metallic sound of bullets ricocheting off metal painfully loud as she clapped her hands over her ears.

And then it was over.

As the sound of tires screeching broke through the last couple shots, she felt her protector shift, his head lifting to track the car as it peeled away. It was only then that Iris lifted her own head, her chest heaving as terror and adrenaline was suddenly surging through her system. James still had his right arm curled protectively around her, keeping his body between her and the now fleeing threat, his other arm still raised as though to shield them both. As the dark sedan roared away she could feel his tensed body trembling, ready—eager even—to pursue their attackers. Iris' fingers tightened where they had grabbed fistfuls of his shirt, steadying herself as he straightened, her grip and his arm pulling her upright with him.

An expression of cold rage flashed in his steel-blue eyes, the blankness brought on by the emotion sending a shiver through Iris.

She'd never seen anything like it in his face before. She'd always had the feeling he was dangerous, right from that first day when he'd knocked on her door. But now she knew it. She could see it in the terrifyingly blank expression on his face and the purposeful, powerful way he moved, his frame no longer tensed but loose and predatory.

Then her eyes latched onto his other arm where he still had it half-raised in front of them and she froze, drawing his attention back to her as her legs threatened to give out from under her in shock. The left sleeves of both his navy plaid button-up and his dark long-sleeved shirt were littered with holes—they were all but shredded. But that's not what had drawn her stare.

It was the bright glint of mirror-bright metal shining beneath the ragged fabric. She could feel his right arm tighten around her the instant he noticed her staring.

"Iris?" It was a choked sound, barely more than a whisper, but it drew her attention away from his arm—his _metal_ arm. The blankly murderous expression was gone, leaving him looking pale and stricken, though that didn't diminish the hard set of his jaw or the concern in his face as he looked down at her. When he spoke again his voice was stronger, but there was a note of despondency to it that Iris almost missed. "Are you hurt?" She didn't register what he said at first, forcing him to ask again before she managed to shake her head emphatically no. And then a shuddering breath rushed out of her, and before she could stop it, she was pressing herself back against him, burrowing into his side as what just happened sank in, her arms wrapping tightly around his waist, renewing her deathgrip on his shirt as she clung to him.

Someone had been _shooting_ at them. As she forced in breath after deep, quaking breath to try and calm herself, a pair of solid arms encircled her as James pulled her closer, his cheek pressed into her curls.

For a split-second, she wished they could stay like that.

But as the first sound of sirens grew in the distance it was as though the more practical side of her switched back on. Pulling away, she looked in the direction the sirens were coming from, her mind whirring. She looked up to James again. He was also glancing toward the approaching police cars, the flashing lights illuminating the cross street in the distance. That wary, calculating look was back on his face.

"Go," she breathed, her hands pressing against his chest to push him away from her. It drew his gaze back to her. He looked at her without comprehension, his brow furrowing deeply as his lips parted to question her. But she didn't let him say anything.

"Someone will have already called the police. You're running from something." His face closed off for a moment before he understood what she was saying, "I know you are. Go. Get inside." He glanced back in the direction of the sirens once last time before taking a firm hold of her shoulders.

"Iris, I—you don't have to—" She shook her head, pushing at him again, not that she managed to shift his bulk in the slightest. Nevertheless, he got her point, taking a small step toward the front door.

"I'll be fine. They'll just want a statement. Besides, I know that car. They weren't after you." More emotions than she could categorize flashed across his face before one of doubt laced with hope settled over his features. He wanted to believe her.

Iris' expression darkened, her own anger beginning to thread through her voice, "One of Chris—or whatever his name was—Chris' friends used to park it outside all the time when he still lived here. You don't have to get involved." He looked like he was about to object again but Iris shushed him, glancing toward the end of the street where the first cop car was just about to turn the corner. She tugged his jacket from around her shoulders in an uncoordinated rush and shoved it into his hands. "You can't show up on a police report if you want to stay hidden, James, not even as a witness. You can't. Go!" With a final apologetic look he obeyed, slipping in through the front door as Iris turned to watch the appearance of a convoy of police cars.

All things considered, things were handled thankfully quickly. Police flooded the neighbourhood, questioning witnesses—Iris included—cordoning off the area where bullets had sprayed the fronts of four different houses and taking pictures. Since the front façade of Iris' house had taken the brunt of the assault, she was lucky enough to have two officers talking to her at first. She gave her version of the event, fighting not to glance toward the window that she suspected James was watching anxiously from too often, lest one of the cops get the impression she was hiding something. She told them she'd managed to duck down fast enough that none of the bullets had hit her and that she recognized the car the shooter had been driving. She also admitted that she had kicked out the man who she suspected was behind the shooting, telling the detective everything she knew about Chris, his activities and the variety of sketchy friends he often had over when he'd still been a tenant.

She also found out from the detective that they already had a very drugged out Chris—which evidently was his actual name—in custody along with his equally high accomplice. Apparently they'd all but driven right into the line of approaching police cars. Iris couldn't hide her satisfaction at that, earning a hearty chuckle from the older detective taking her statement.

As he put the finishing touches on his report, Iris weighed whether or not to ask the question that was on her mind.

"What are the chances that I'm going to have to testify," she finally asked as the detective, eying the two other officers still interviewing her some of her neighbours, "I mean, I will if I have to, but I'd really rather not." She wasn't terribly interested in the idea of perjuring herself in court; as that thought crossed her mind she realized she would if she had to, if it meant protecting James. If that wasn't a sobering thought…

The detective glanced up at her from tucking his notebook away, an amused yet sympathetic look on his face as he gave her a quick once over. She suspected she knew what he saw; she knew she was trembling again. It was more from her fading adrenaline and the cool evening air than fear, but the cop seemed to interpret it otherwise. She was okay with that. He smiled kindly at her before glancing around at his comrades, many of whom were beginning to pack up.

"I can't imagine you'll have to. No one was hurt and we've got more than enough on him and his pal from the car alone for multiple charges, and not just for the drive-by or the intoxication. Add to that the bullets we're pulling from the buildings—it's pretty open and shut. Nah, he won't be getting off easy, that's for sure. No promises, of course, it's up to the lawyers and the judge, but I imagine your statement will do." Fighting back a relieved sigh, she thanked him as the officer bid her goodnight and left her at the bottom of the steps, reminding her to use the back door for the next couple days until they could finish up with processing the scene.

As soon as the cars began pulling away, Iris was dashing around through the skinny alley between her house and the next batch to the back and all but running up the stairs of the fire escape. After a moment of fumbling with the lock on the door she was inside. It was then that it hit her again. She'd been _shot_ at. Her legs beginning to renew their trembling, she fell back against the door she'd just shut. Her bag fell with a dull thud to the floor as her head likewise fell into her hands, a new wave of tears and shakes threatening to overwhelm her.

And then his arms were around her again—James having abandoned his watch at out the front window the instant she'd darted around the side of the house—his real hand burying itself in her hair as he pulled her tight against him. In moments he had her sitting curled into his side on her couch, letting the residual shudders from the stress of the evening run their course. Eventually the tremors eased and Iris was able to get herself back under control. She looked up at James, who, while still holding her close, was staring off into the distance again, his face unreadable.

"Thank you," she finally managed to murmur, drawing him back from wherever he'd disappeared to. "For saving me." The tugging at the corner of his mouth reappeared, though there was still a tightness around his eyes. After a moment he nodded, leaning down briefly to brush his cheek against the crown of her head. It felt almost like there'd been a fleeting kiss there too.

"I had to."

 


	8. Chapter 8

"I had to," he murmured into her hair before pulling back to look at her again, his fingers coming up to brush across her cheek. Warmth fluttered in Iris' belly at the way he said it and a charged shiver went through her at his feather-like touch. She couldn't help the tiny grin that tugged at her own lips. She lowered her head to rest against his shoulder, her arm reaching out to curl around his waist.

But she froze as her fingers found a warm, damp spot in his shirt over his ribs just below his left arm. Her gaze shot up to James, eyes wide as she realized what that dampness meant. Especially when she pulled her hand back to reveal her fingertips painted nearly black. She knew if the room were lit by more than just the streetlights outside they'd be crimson. He grimaced guiltily as she looked at him in disbelief.

"You're hurt!"

"It's nothing," he reassured her calmly, pulling back from her a little to meet her worried gaze head on. "I was grazed, that's all." But Iris wasn't having any of it, her heart pounding anxiously at the idea that he'd been hurt protecting her.

"James—"

"I'm fine—"

"—you need to get it looked at!" A smirk spread across his face as she blurted that out, his eyebrows rising in challenge even as she realized what she just implied.

"The woman who insisted I hide from the police now wants me to go see a doctor?" Iris' cheeks flushed hotly but she didn't back down, staring at him intently before pulling out from under his arm and bee-lining for the kitchen. James looked genuinely amused right up until the moment she dropped back down next to him, lamp on the end table newly turned on and moved to the coffee table, her first aid kit in hand. Then apprehension began to grow behind his eyes, his grin fading. She fixed him with a demanding stare as she flicked the latch on the plastic case, pursing her lips in as stern a look as she could manage.

"Well, since doctors are out, someone needs to look at it, at least. And I'm the only someone here." He shot her a faintly exasperated look, his brow rising even as his eyes once again glinted with suppressed amusement. But she didn't back down, even going so far as to tug pointedly at the hem of his shirt. With a sigh he reluctantly shrugged the plaid shirt with its ruined sleeve off before moving to pull the shirt off next. Iris fought back a flinch as she caught sight of the dark stain soaking the fabric from just below his arm nearly down to the waistband of his jeans.

"I told you it's fine," he muttered, though the pained grimace he tried to hide as he peeled the shirt away from the wound belied his casual assertion. When he didn't remove the shirt completely, only holding it up to reveal his injured side she glared at him. If he was worried about the secret of his metal arm, the cat was already out of that bag. On top of the stern look, now a glare, she added in a set of crossed arms.

He let out a faint chuckle, grinning down at her right before his shirt obscured his face from view. But it hadn't hid the trepidation in his eyes nor the way his whole body seemed to tense as though bracing against a physical blow. She nearly faltered at the look. But as the shirt slid free of his shoulders and head Iris' glare faded and she nearly forgot he was injured.

It was the first time she'd actually seen the arm. She'd felt it that first day, when she'd tried to find out his name, but she'd nearly forgotten about it in the steady stream of days, weeks and finally months that followed.

Where it joined with his torso was hard to look at, the skin puckered and inflamed, nearly ridged where it met and overlapped with the metal, while angry, knotted scars marred and furrowed the surrounding flesh. But the arm itself...it was striking, even strangely beautiful. From shoulder to fingertips it was a metal she couldn't define—obviously strong enough to deflect bullets with only the barest of marks, her memory provided—with a bright mirror-finish that gleamed in the low light of her apartment with the faintest scuffs and imperfections only visible under close scrutiny. The length of it was broken up with what looked like seams or joins of some sort that created an intricate banded, almost mosaic patterning, some parted just enough to reveal the inner workings the outer plates hid. On the rounded curve of what would have been the deltoid on a flesh and bone arm was painted a vibrant red star thinly outlined in black. Something tickled in the back of her mind; a tiny, vague feeling of recognition that she couldn't place.

Before she realized she was doing it, her fingers had reached out to trace the outline of the star, gliding over the cool metal. But she'd barely made it down the side of one point when his flesh and bone hand closed around hers, pulling her hand away. He wasn't looking at her, his steel-blue eyes veiled as they fixed anywhere but on her face, his jaw set in a hard line. In this moment he seemed almost revolted by the limb, the whole of it tensed from shoulder down to the tightly fisted hand.

He hated it, she realized.

Inhaling deeply as a small sort of stubborn courage settled in her chest, Iris managed to slide her fingers from the hold he had on them in order to lay them against the gleaming bicep. It was then that he did look at her properly. The expression on his face nearly made her want to cry. He didn't seem to know what to do with her reaction. Part of him looked ready to flinch away at her anticipated horror and disgust, while another part seemed as though he barely dared to believe that she might not do that at all. She'd seen traces of vulnerability in him before. But now? This was as vulnerable as he got. She felt like he was laid bare before her in letting her see this, the tangible proof—physical and emotional—of whatever it was that had been done to him.

Her hand slid down his arm, fingers tracing the gaps between each segmented plate she passed until she reached his wrist. There her fingers met leather. In a few pointed—albeit faintly awkward—movements, she managed to tug the glove he still wore from his hand before running her own fingertips over his, brushing over the knuckles and palm. He just watched her do it, his features tense and anxious.

It was an incredible feat of cybernetic engineering, not that she was any sort of expert by a long shot. It moved like a real hand, flexing and relaxing just as flesh, bone and tendons would. In the quiet of the apartment, she could hear the servos and mechanics of it whirring and humming if he so much as shifted.

"Can you feel with it," she murmured, the thought floating up through the million other thoughts and questions the arm inspired. He swallowed thickly after a moment before forcing out an answer.

"Somewhat," he muttered hoarsely, "but it's nowhere close to as sensitive as the real one was." She nodded, her fingers still trailing over the planes and angles of his hand.

As she shifted her gaze back up to his face, Iris placed her hand in his metal one, wrapping her fingers around his even as she knew her expression was all but daring him to pull away. The metal was cool, but it was soon warming under Iris' touch.

The breath he let loose nearly sounded like it had been crushed from him as his entire body sagged with the sudden release of anxious tension. His face crumpled with relief and disbelief as he leaned forward, his forehead dipping forward to rest against hers. With a tiny grin she shifted, her other hand sliding up to tangle briefly in his hair before trailing down the warm skin of his back, her fingers unconsciously tracing each of the collection of scars they crossed. When he flinched as her hand came too close to the bullet graze she was reminded of what had prompted him to strip off his shirt in the first place…or rather, what had prompted her to insist he remove the shirt. With a faintly apologetic smile as she pulled away, pushing his cybernetic arm up and away from his side so she could get back to the task at hand.

She'd been so distracted by his arm that she hadn't even noticed the rest of him that had been bared to her. Well, she noticed now, her eyes appreciatively tracing the muscled planes and contours of his stomach, chest and broad shoulders. While nowhere near as flashy or bulging as was common in magazines or movies, it was obvious that his body was a tool…a weapon, even. His other arm, the flesh and blood one, was nearly as impressive as the cybernetic one, only coming in second because it lacked the wow-factor the gleaming metal gave the other one; both were making it far too easy for her mind to wander. It took a great deal of effort to pull her attention back—again—to the bullet graze on his side…not far from one of those beautifully chiseled pecs… Her face warming, Iris blinked forcefully, even giving her head a brisk little shake in a futile attempt to clear away thoughts of what it'd be like to run her hands over each and every sculpted muscle. Then, after nervously clearing her throat, she hazarded a glance up at James again as she picked out what she needed from the first aid kit.

The sound combined with the self-conscious flush on her cheeks brought a trace of amusement back to his otherwise grim features. She scowled at him, the expression only half serious, before she urged him to shift again, allowing her to take a better look at the wound on his side.

It surprised her almost as much as discovering his cybernetic arm had.

Had she not known just how new it was she would have assumed it had already been healing at least a couple days rather than a couple hours. It had long since stopped bleeding and was beginning to close up. The deepest stretch of it was still deep red and had not begun to fade yet as the rest of the healing flesh was. Her mouth had dropped open in astonishment as her fingers traced around the pinked flesh surrounding the rapidly healing wound, careful not to get too close. Even so, he twitched, a faint pained sound catching in his throat. She snatched her hand back, blurting out a breathy apology. He shot her a tense but reassuring grin, his eyes deeply thoughtful as he watched her rip open an antiseptic wipe from the kit and began washing away the traces of blood crusting on his skin. His shirt had sopped up most of it, but there was still a fair bit on his side.

It probably would have been easier to simply cover the graze and send him off to shower or just wash away the rest in the bathroom—heck, there was probably little reason to cover it anymore—but Iris wasn't quite ready to let him leave just yet. She could still feel the lingering threat of a panic attack waiting just below the surface, and it took a force of will to keep her hands from trembling as she worked. She was afraid that if he were to leave now, there'd be nothing to keep her thoughts from returning to those few terrifying seconds on the stoop. So she sponged away the drying blood and cleaned up the edges of the wound with the wipes, wincing at every swallowed sound or facial twitch of discomfort James made when she got too close to the open part of the wound. After a moment she couldn't quite take the silence anymore.

"It was Chris, the guy I evicted that you, um, helped convince to move out." His gaze shifted from her work on his side to glance at her face. She met his eye for a moment, forcing a faint but distracted grin to her face before turning back to her task. "Like the drugged up genius he was, he and his friend drove right into the line of approaching police cars. They were arrested within minutes of sh—shooting at us," she added with a trace of sarcasm, trying but not quite managing to mask her lingering apprehension or the way her voice faltered. She glanced up at him again, hoping to see a smile, or even a trace of one at the outcome of Chris' drug- and gun-enhanced tantrum.

The corner of his lip tugged but it didn't dispel the deepening shadows in his gaze. Neither did he look at her, the distant expression returning as he seemed to pointedly avoid meeting her eyes again. Something in her quavered at his lack of response, her urge to try and draw him into conversation withering. Her hand stilled at his side, the skin as clean as she could get it with the meager antiseptic wipes.

"It was because of me, because he was my tenant," she finally blurted out, her voice quiet and shaky with nerves, "and because he and his friend were high out of their minds." She could tell from the way he stilled, his head tilting fractionally toward her, that his attention was abruptly latched onto her even if he didn't look at her. She twisted the wipe nervously between her fingers, glancing up at him again out of the corner of her eye. His eyes shifted to her hands, watching as the drying piece of stained tissue was wound and bunched tighter and tighter in her worrying hands. "It had nothing to do with you. If you hadn't been there—" her voice wavered more, her knuckles beginning to whiten as the wipe twisted as tightly as it was able, the pressure transferring to her fingers instead. James shifted and Iris tensed further, realizing it was guilt that was flooding her as her eyes fell on the healing injury on his ribs. She nearly jumped when his hand closed over hers, tugging the now dry and mutilated antiseptic wipe from her hands and tossing it aside, enclosing her fingers tightly within his.

Something in her loosened at the gesture, an anxious breath seeping out of her. She looked up at him again. There was a resigned, even pained expression on his features as he focused on her hands, massaging away the tension in them. After a long moment he let out a loaded sigh.

"It could just have easily been the people who are after me," he finally murmured, his tone bitter. His eyes darted up to hers. Iris frowned, her head beginning to shake.

"But it wasn't," she answered back just as quietly. But she was unable to bear the despondent look in his eyes, her own dropping back to where her hands were still caught by his. The fingers of his bionic hand curled gently under her chin, forcing her to look up into his suddenly grave face.

"Next time it will be."


	9. Chapter 9

"I can't stay, Iris," he said softly, "I've been here too long already." Iris was barely able to fight back the tremors at the blunt and resigned way he said it. The quavering in her chest intensified. She shook her head again, or at least, she tried to as best she could given that his metal fingers still held her chin so that she was forced to meet his wretched gaze.

"Yes you can. You can stay," she whispered, a plea that she knew was pointless even as the words slipped past her lips, "I want you to stay." His eyes closed, hiding the flicker of sorrow that appeared in their steel-blue depths. His hand fell back to his lap as he turned, his jaw clenching as though fighting to keep something in.

"No, I can't," he ground out, "there are people searching for me, Iris. And they have good reason to be." Iris was taken aback, feeling a little like she had been slapped at the self-loathing in his voice. He leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees as his face fell to his hands, another loaded, pained sigh growling out of his chest. Iris was so shocked that she couldn't move, though a single word wormed its way out of her thoughts and out into the quiet of the apartment.

"Why?" His hands fell slowly away from his face as her impulsive question hung in the air, his eyes hard and distant as his jaw tensed again, the muscle in his cheek working angrily. But he didn't answer, not right away. After a moment he stood, ignoring the blood-stained tee and snatching up the plaid shirt instead, worrying it in his hands for a moment before donning it in quick, angry movements, though he stopped short of buttoning it. Iris could only watch him as he scrubbed his real hand over his face, pacing out his agitation. Iris quickly regretted letting the word out, hating how conflicted and agitated it made him. She nearly began hoping he wouldn't answer, suddenly afraid of what he'd say. For him to look the way he did right now? Deep down, her gut told her it had to be bad to haunt him like this.

But that thought was cut short as he abruptly stopped pacing, his voice quiet but rushed at first before he forced himself to slow down.

"I don't remember huge chunks of my past," he confessed in a rush, pointedly not looking directly at her as the words tumbled out, "I wasn't even sure of my own name the first day you met me." He sounded almost detached and he sounded resigned, drawing a frown at first from Iris, distracting her from her apprehension at hearing the answer to her question.

It sounded outlandish as he said it. But as she processed the way he said it, it almost immediately didn't. More than that, he _sounded_ like he had little hope that she'd believe him. If he noticed her incredulity at first he didn't let on. He just kept talking and soon it seemed like he barely even realized he was speaking anymore, like she wasn't there at all. He seemed almost lost inside his own head, yet there was no mistaking how oddly relieved he seemed to be letting it out.

"There are some things I just _know_ , some things I think I remember and others that flash through my head like a film reel. I _know_ I'm from Brooklyn, but I can't keep my memories about it straight. I think I remember enlisting, but I can't remember when or where or why. I remember flashes of growing up, of my brothers, my sister, of my best friend, of school and fighting and missions. I see faces I should know and names I should be able to put faces to. I think I remember doing…horrible things…monstrous things…there are things I wish I didn't remember." She'd never heard him say so much about the not-so-secret darker aspects his past and, if she was being truthful with herself, a shiver of unease went through her at the blank, awful expression forming in his steel-blue eyes as he paused, his breathing ragged. He'd never even willfully brought it up before, always deflecting or avoiding.

But then it was as though something in him cracked, an equally horrible despondency taking over from the dead look, leaving him looking deflated and exhausted. Iris could only watch, transfixed at the constantly shifting shadows, real and metaphoric, passing over his face, her chest growing tight at how utterly wretched he sounded. She'd thought of him as tortured when she'd first met him, but until this moment she hadn't realized how heartbreakingly appropriate the term had been.

"There are huge blank spaces in my memory, but also not. Places in my head that are like—" he struggled for a moment to find the right words, "like there's a locked door between me and my past, a glass one that I can see through and I think I might be able to open, but one I'm not sure I can walk through; one I'm not sure I _want_ to walk through. Not remembering what I do remember." Almost as soon as the analogy came out he looked dissatisfied with it, even outright frustrated with it, the crease between his brows furrowing deeper. But when nothing better seemed to come to mind he all but snarled out his frustration, his metal hand fisting with a quiet, squealing clunk that nevertheless seemed to echo through the room. Iris couldn't help but recoil at the sound, causing his face to twist further as, this time, he noticed her reaction. The silence seemed to build, pressing down on both of them, but on James heaviest of all. After a moment he sank back down onto the couch, as though he didn't have the will or the energy in the face of his admission to stand anymore, his whole body shaking. She reached out to touch him, to lay a hand against his arm but he flinched away, an anguished and desolate expression twisting his handsome features.

"I—I think I was ordered to kill him—my best friend—and I—I tried to do it. I didn't know him. But then I started to. He said my name and I started to remember. But then they tore it back out of me and ordered me to try again. I couldn't fight the order. I didn't even think to. I just obeyed. Not until he—he—I was nothing. Nothing but the mission…empty…" his voice broke and Iris was sure part of her heart broke with it. She could feel tears prickling behind her eyes but they didn't fall. They couldn't. It was as though the strength of his anguish and guilt was burning them away. If she had felt completely inadequate at comforting him that evening they ate dinner on the roof what felt like nearly a lifetime ago, that was nothing to the feeling she fought against now. Now, to an even more acute degree than that night, there was nothing she could say.

So she offered nothing but her presence. She stayed. She had listened and she'd let him get what he'd been holding in out, and as his breathing began to steady she knew that was what he'd needed more than words. She didn't tell him it'd be okay—that would have been a lie and they both knew it. And she didn't tell him she wasn't unnerved by what he'd said, because she was…but it didn't seem important, somehow. She edged a little closer, sliding off the couch to kneel between his knees so that her face was level with his. His head bowed lower, avoiding her. But Iris reached out, her hands tracing his jaw before lifting his face to hers and resting her forehead against his. A shuddering sigh rocked through him, his eyes squeezed shut as though trying to hold back the agonized tears she could see glimmering in the corners of his eyes.

After a moment that seemed to drag on for a year, his eyes opened to meet hers. The steel-blue depths still held his torment but it had eased, leaving only the James she'd come to care about. A shiver of relief ran through her to see that and Iris finally felt the worry pressing against her chest loosen. He shifted, his flesh hand rising to tangle itself in her short curls as the cybernetic one tentatively traced up her forearm and eased around her to rest in the hollow of her back. One of her own hands slipped down his neck until it rested against his collarbone as the other drifted down until it rested against the cool metal of his left shoulder. The hint of a smile appeared on his face at the gesture, but it didn't quite melt the haunted look in his eyes.

With another shuddering sigh, this one nowhere near as forceful as the last, he pulled away, leaning back onto the couch. The hand that had been tangled in her hair loosened and brushed down her neck to her shoulder. She didn't even need to feel the entreating pressure of his fingers to climb back onto the couch to settle against him, her head nestling into against the juncture of his neck and shoulder. She could feel his cheek lowering to rest against her hair, feeling him breathing deeply even as his arms curled around her.

It was a long time before he spoke again. So long that she was growing dangerously close to drifting off against him.

"They turned me into a weapon," he murmured, his voice lacking nearly all inflection, "They gave me—gave me _this_ ," She felt and heard his metal arm tense, seeing his hand fisting again, "and they broke into my head, scrambling and shredding my mind, locking away my memories. They made me a mindless weapon." His voice grew pained then. "They made me into a monster." Iris responded at first by burrowing closer into his side, her hand reaching out to trace over the cool metal of his cybernetic one until it loosened beneath her touch. It was only then that she spoke, her voice low and certain even as it grew sleepy.

"They may have made you into a weapon, but you're not a monster." And she realized she believed it too. A shaky breath expanded his chest beneath her, but he didn't object, even though she suspected he wanted to. She was glad for that. She was too tired to argue that point right now with the adrenaline long gone. She was too comfortable tucked within his embrace and it was slowly beginning to lull her to sleep; she felt protected there. "You saved my life, James. You're a good person. Just because you've done bad things it doesn't make you a monster.

"You make me feel safe." His only response to her murmur was to tighten his hold more securely around her. She sighed at that, snuggling further against him, her voice a faint, pleading whisper when she spoke again.

"Please stay." He didn't answer with words, but she felt it in the way his body relaxed next to hers.

It wasn't much longer before she had drifted off for real, still curled up against him.


	10. Chapter 10

She'd fallen asleep curled up against him.

Almost afraid to move, he just held her, fingers tracing idly along her arm, his thoughts too full and too jumbled and his nerves still too on edge for sleep.

He'd said too much. He knew he had. It was a blur, what he'd said, his mind jumbling and falling over itself in his agitation. He hadn't intended to say any of it, either what he remembered saying or what he feared he'd said. But her quiet, tentative little _why_ had shattered his resolve, his muddled thoughts surging up as though in answer to her question, the mix of fear, adrenaline and tension snapping the fragile leash he'd been holding the memories in check with. He knew he'd admitted his memory was in shreds, and he knew he'd let far too much slip out about the mindless monster he'd been, about the evil things he'd done.

But it had felt good to let it out. He hated himself for that too. The weight of his past and the pressure from the way his thoughts staggered and clashed with the chaotic, fragmented memories still battling inside his head had been too much, leaving him unable to stem the flow of words that had poured from him as he struggled to bring his mind back under control.

Yet, in that moment when she'd taken his head in her hands, his thoughts had stilled, allowing him a measure of calm, of peace as her acceptance had startled him out of the spiralling storm of memory, self-loathing and shame, letting him regain a small measure of control over himself again. It was still there, the dark, disjointed memories fighting and clawing through his mind, threatening a return to the near mindless confusion and agitation that had gripped him as the alarm and rage left over from the attack on Iris weakened what little mastery over his own head he'd been able to regain.

Then she sighed sleepily against him.

At the soft, contented sound his mind finally went blank, save for the woman in his arms too foolish to fear him and too stubbornly kindhearted for him to leave. He couldn't help but smile at the thought.

And eventually sleep found him too.

But then with a start he was awake, his skin prickling as his heart raced. The images that had woken him just as they did every night were just as disjointed and garish before his waking eyes as they had been in his dreams. Just as horrible too.

…Excruciating pain as blinding electric currents arced and seared through his brain, leaving him just as uncomprehending and _blank_ about why as he had been before they'd even activated the machine…

…The pounding, aching pressure in his head, his body; the need to complete his mission, each and every one, no matter that he felt empty regardless. He felt nothing; emotionless, blank…

…A frozen river bed, his body broken and shattered; white-hot agony blending with icy, frozen burning, his own steaming blood melting the snow…

…Dead faces, dozens upon dozens of them; burned, bloodied, crushed, empty…as empty as he felt; blood, bullets, fists and blades; the crunch of bone and snapping of tendons beneath his cybernetic hand…

…A face that was somehow—impossibly—more familiar to him than his own; swollen, bruised and bleeding, looking up at him with sad, knowing eyes as he promised that he'd be there 'til the end of the line…

…The abrupt vibration of a bullet's discharge shuddering through his shoulder as the reverberation echoed in his ears, while in the distance a target fell with a silent spray of blood…

…A face he'd known, calling him by a name a little part of him thought he should know, before—before—and his hand, squeezing around a woman's neck…

And then something had happened that hadn't before.

The memories had turned to nightmares.

The woman's face had become Iris'.

And he hadn't been able to stop even as he screamed, trapped inside his own head.

Suddenly struggling to breathe, Bucky—James for her, only for her—tried to sit, only for a soft, sleepy sound of protest to stop him.

She was still curled into his side. Sometime, in a moment of drowsy near-consciousness, he'd shifted so that he was stretched out along the couch rather than sitting, pulling her with him. By some miracle Iris hadn't been woken by either that…or by his nightmares.

Involuntarily his fingers brushed across her cheek before he flinched back at the sight of the gleaming metal of the cybernetic digits against her skin. There was too much blood on that hand… Either hand. It was the flesh one that had tightened around that woman's throat—her name on the tip of his tongue even as her face was seared into his memory—and the flesh one that almost always pulled the trigger… He was drenched in blood. He suppressed a shudder, wanting desperately to keep her from waking to see the remnants of the memories he was sure were written in his eyes, on his face, on his very skin. How could he even let himself touch her… There was no way she'd want him to if she knew the truth…if she knew even a fraction of what he'd done…

He also knew he should move her. He knew he should return her to her own bed. But she looked comfortable enough, burrowed as she was between him and the couch-back, his arm wrapped securely around her waist as she lay pillowed against his chest. There was barely enough room for the two of them, and he worried for a moment about the risk of sliding off the edge of the couch to the floor. He really should move her.

But he didn't want to. He wanted to keep her right here, safe, in his arms.

Wasn't that a cruel irony...

He knew what was going to happen. As sure as if he could see the future, he knew. One day _they_ would show up. And if _they_ didn't, someone else would. Whoever it ended up being would try to take him. And it would be a fight. It would always end in a fight. His life was one of violence whether he liked it or not. There was no escaping that fact. He might manage to get away, to beat them back, or he might not. They might take him alive, though a dark, bitter part of him hoped they wouldn't if it came to that. It really didn't matter either way. Only one inescapable fact did.

She'd get caught in the crossfire.

If they didn't do worse to her first.

He scrubbed his hand over his face, the cool metal not as bracing as cold water but it sufficed.

What he should be doing was leaving before this went any further. Because it would. He could feel that too. No matter that he tried to convince himself it wasn't happening, he knew he was beginning to fall in love with this stubborn, quirky woman who loved sunflowers but was named Iris. The woman who, for some unfathomable reason had let him into her home all those weeks ago and sheltered him, fed him, befriended him. Who, despite knowing nothing about his demons, somehow seemed to provide precisely what he desperately needed; time and a sense of normalcy, of stability...of safety. The woman who, somehow, made him feel, if not whole, at least like a _person_ again even at his most broken, instead of an empty shell, a husk of a man.

The woman who, for some unfathomable reason, despite the fearful bewilderment he'd seen in her hazel eyes, wanted him to stay.

He should leave before it was too late.

But it was already too late, a little fractured corner of his mind whispered. Who was he kidding? He'd been falling in love with her since she first brought him a take-out container of chicken parm; her own dinner. And every dinner and every moment of time they spent together over the ensuing weeks—months now, he realized with surprise—were only entangling him further. She was quickly becoming part of him, essential to him. She was nestling her way further into his heart where he wanted to keep her, safe and protected.

But the only way to protect her was to disappear.

That hurt to think about.

It would have to happen. It was as inevitable as the fact that they would come for him.

So he would leave.

Iris shifted in his arms, settling herself more securely against his side, her cloud of dark curls tickling his throat and jaw. He sighed heavily.

And his lips brushed against her forehead.

But not tonight. Tonight he was staying right where he was.

She'd asked him to.


	11. Chapter 11

Iris realized later that it had been incredibly foolish to believe there'd be no further consequences from what happened when Chris had opened fire on her front stoop.

Oh, she'd known things would change between her and James, and in that she'd certainly been right.

After that first evening on her couch, rarely a night went by where James didn't camp out in her living room, and many of those nights Iris found herself falling asleep next to him whether she meant to or not. More often than not, she'd wake up the next morning carefully tucked into bed, but there was the odd morning where she'd woken to find herself still curled into James' side. Once she'd even returned to the couch and his comforting presence after intending to fall asleep in her own bed; the look in those steel-blue eyes had sent a shiver through her but the tug at the corner of his mouth had eased the anxieties being alone had sent rattling around in her head. He wouldn't join her in her room, though. It was one of those quirks that she'd come to think of as an almost old-fashioned impulse. She knew better than to argue, though, recognizing that it was another of those conventions he seemed raised to adhere to.

When she asked why he didn't return to his apartment to sleep anymore, he'd given her one of those fathomless looks he had and, after a little more prodding, had admitted it made him anxious to leave her at night. Having her nearby calmed him, he'd told her, and gave him something, or someone rather, to focus on and that kept him grounded. Especially since Chris' attack had triggered his programmed aggressive instincts…and, she'd added to herself, a latent protective one. She wasn't even sure he'd realized the protective aspect yet. But Iris had.

Given what he'd revealed, she'd found herself becoming hyper-aware of his behaviors. Quite frequently in the past couple weeks he would always manage to position himself between her and doors, or she'd catch him unconsciously peering out the windows for…something, anything out of the ordinary. One day she even caught him in her little kitchenette all but twirling one of her paring knives around his fingers, his face distant but unsatisfied, as if the balance of the kitchen knife didn't suit whatever he was trying to do. The next day she'd noticed a military-grade knife peeking out from just inside the back waistband of his faded black jeans when he'd been reaching for something, his shirt riding up just enough to reveal the dark handle.

Besides, he'd added with a trace of that mischievous grin, she'd asked him to stay.

But that's not what else she should have expected. What she should have expected approached her on the street barely a month after Chris' drive-by.

"Hey!" Iris paid little attention to the shouted greeting at first, not expecting anyone to be calling out to her on the street as she walked home from a morning shift at the restaurant. But when the voice called again she turned, openly confused as a man strode up to her, a friendly, open look on his face. He was tall and dark-skinned with neatly trimmed facial hair and a pair of sunglasses that he removed as he approached, his expressive eyes squinting a bit in the sun as he did so. There was something about his demeanor that put her at ease, but the measure of economy and control in his gait said to her that he was possibly military; a lot of ex-military guys came into the restaurant and they all had that same sort of bearing. That realization put her right back on guard again.

"Hey, how're you doin’," he repeated, smiling widely as he came to a stop beside her. Iris managed a small 'fine' back, one that he nodded in acknowledgement of before continuing. "You live here, right? In this neighbourhood?" Suddenly growing suspicious Iris nodded, doing her best to keep him from realizing she was uneasy. He smiled again, his hands hooked casually in his front pockets, his posture relaxed.

"Great. That's great. Listen, I'm looking for someone, and I think he's been staying in this area. I've been asking around a bit without much luck. Maybe you've seen him?" Iris was still eyeing him warily, especially as an image of James flashed unbidden through her mind's eyes. So she simply shrugged. She was willing to play along. The more helpful she seemed, the more likely he was to believe she was telling the truth…regardless of whether or not she bent the truth or even if she was forced to lie.

"Maybe. It's possible. I work at a restaurant not far from here and a lot of locals drop in." Grinning, he withdrew a hand from his jeans' pocket and reached into his jacket's, pulling out a phone. Tapping at the screen a couple times he handed it to her.

Her suspicion that he was looking for James meant that she was prepared when she was confronted with a grainy picture of him; it was hard to tell, but it was definitely James. She'd wondered once if he'd been military or something of that sort—black ops or whatever—but seeing a picture of him in dark combat gear of some kind with that particular focused look on his face? There was no question he was a soldier. If she'd had any doubt anymore about what he'd been…what he was…it was long gone now.

But she dutifully looked over the image, studying the face she had come to know quite well, all while working hard to keep a neutral but considering look plastered on her face. Finally she shrugged, handing the phone back to him.

"Maybe. It's hard to say." He gave her a considering look, raising the phone absently as he continued, motioning that he was still referring to the subject of the photo.

"His name's Bucky, Bucky Barnes. Might go by James. Or might be going by a different name altogether. Last bead I got on him was from a police report from a few weeks back saying someone saw him. Said he and another resident got shot at by some punk, but the bullets seemed to bounce right off him." Iris had to fight not to react to the offhanded comment. Someone had seen him with her that night. She made herself frown, though, glancing up at the man.

"Yeah, some guy decided to do a drive-by. I was on my way home from work that night and nearly got caught out by it. I don't remember seeing this guy, though. I'm pretty sure I'd remember the bullet thing." The lie came surprisingly easy. He frowned himself in response, fixing her with a pointed look.

"You're sure?" She shrugged in response, starting to get nervous that he could see through her blatant lie but still fighting to appear casual.

"A lot of people come through this area. It's not known for its long-term residents. A couple of the neighbours rent out on a weekly basis. I rent out by the month. In fact, I just lost one of my tenants a little while back. I don't suppose you're looking for an apartment, are you? Good rate; it's not much but it's fairly clean and in good shape." He laughed congenially at her half-hearted sales pitch but it didn't quite mask the flicker of frustrated disappointment.

"Naw, I've got a place, thanks," he chuckled, "but hey," he dug into his jacket pocket again, pulling out a business card and holding it out to her. "If you do see him, give me a shout, okay? I'm Sam."

"Iris," she offered back out of habit. He nodded in acknowledgement. After a split-second of hesitation she took the card, taking in the name—Sam Wilson—before giving him a smile back. He seemed to catch the reserve in it, his warm eyes turning serious. "My friend and I are looking to help this guy. But there are others out there who want him too. Guys with bad motives. We're not after him to hurt him," he abruptly assured her. Iris eyed him warily again, getting the odd feeling like this wasn't just a pitch but that he was being honest with her. But she still definitely did not trust him…not completely, at least. The memory of James falling apart on her couch flickered behind her eyes. No. She wasn't about to risk James' safety so blithely, even if this man did seem trustworthy.

"Yeah, sure," she lied. She held back a nervous swallow at the measuring look he gave her. But then it was gone and he was smiling again.

"Good. You have a good one," he offered before turning and walking off, pausing only to look back at her once as he did. Iris didn't move, fiddling thoughtfully with her necklace, watching him as he strode casually down the street, only looking down at the card in her hand after he'd crossed the street, heading on to question someone else.

The paper card was easy to crumple in her hand, but she couldn't quite bring herself to throw it away. Sighing heavily she glanced up the street toward her house and the window she knew James might very well be sitting at if he was home at the moment, if not out on one of his wanderings. Worry and fear flickered in her chest. He hadn't been exaggerating.

People were after him.

And while Iris grudgingly believed this Sam guy was being honest that he wasn't after James to hurt him, she wasn't so naïve to think that the next one to come looking would have the same intentions. Forcing in a shuddering, nervous breath Iris continued on home, each step feeling like she was dragging a weight behind it.

Pain stabbed through her at the realization of what this Sam Wilson's appearance meant.

James was going to leave.

And soon.


	12. Chapter 12

"He was looking for me, wasn't he."

He was waiting by the window just as she suspected. Iris had barely closed the door before he spoke, his voice nearly a snarl. But it was also miserable. Iris tried to ignore it, pushing past the crushing sensation the tone sent through her. She looked down to the crumpled card still in her hands. It took her a moment to flatten it, though the creases remained, harsh on the once crisp, thick paper. The distance between the door and the window felt like a mile. But Iris walked it anyway, silently setting the card next to the small black journal on the sill beside James.

"Yes, Bucky. He was looking for you." His head snapped up to her, a desolate expression flashing across his face. Her admitting she knew that name—his name—was all the confirmation he needed and she knew it. She tried to smile, but her lips didn't quite seem able to obey her, not knowing as she did what was going to come next. His jaw clenched as he turned abruptly back to the window, his eyes only half seeing the street outside. Then with an angry sound he pushed away from the wall, brushing almost angrily past her.

She just watched him as he took a handful of steps into the apartment before stopping, the tension in his shoulders and back betraying how on edge he was. A shuddering breath broke the silence and it surprised Iris to realize it had come from her. She took first one step, then another until she stood behind him again. She reached out, but couldn't quite bring herself to touch him. Her fingers closed into a fist of her own, retreating to clutch at her aunt's sunflower. Her stomach was beginning to ache with her anxiety.

"You're going to leave, aren't you." Her words were quiet but there was no hiding the bitter sadness in them. If anything he tensed further, his head dropping for a moment before he turned back to her. Her eyes were beginning to burn, but Iris was determined not to cry, clenching her own teeth together to keep her chin from trembling at the impulse. "Please stay," she bit out, the two words a plea and a demand all at once. His face crumpled and regret flickered in his eyes before a restless, anxious energy seemed to rise up in him, washing it away. He stepped away from her, skirting around her again to return to the window. The expression baffled Iris at first, but as his mouth opened to speak only to snap shut when he began shaking his head, she somehow managed to put a name to it.

Self-preservation.

His agitation clear on his face, James began to pace, his metal hand flexing and fisting compulsively as he thought. He didn't wear the gloves around her anymore, so the metal gleamed in the sunlight seeping into the apartment. Iris dropped onto the couch, watching him with bewildered eyes, trying not to seem freaked out by his reaction.

"I've been here too long," he muttered, "I've been so stupid. I know better…I knew I should have moved on weeks ago—"

"Then why didn't you?" The question was out of Iris' mouth before she could stop it. He shot her a look that was equally dejected and condescending, as though she should know why. As soon as she thought that, she did know. "Because of me," she whispered. Her eyes dropped as a feeling of guilt threatened to close her throat. She looked up again as he stilled, reaching down to flatten the card on the windowsill with his flesh and bone fingers to read it better, his face stony and cold. Iris forced back the sudden welling of self-pity, annoyed with herself for giving in so easily. She didn't want to give him up. She wanted to fight for him.

She'd fallen in love with him.

She started at the realization.

When the hell had that happened…she shook her head to clear the thought away. She couldn't think on that now, though it certainly added an edge to her pain at the idea of him leaving. So she changed the subject. Sort of.

"Why is this guy after you? Is he government? He didn't quite look government; maybe military." James looked away from his covert surveillance of the street below to fix her with an unreadable stare.

"You're assuming there's a misunderstanding; that he's a 'bad guy.' He's not. His friend is not. They're 'good guys.' They're trying to find me because I'm a 'bad guy.'" A bleakness edged into his tone. Iris got the impression there was more to what was going on, but she wasn't interested. She was too caught up on his rather troubling assertion. Hearing him refer to himself like that made her angry.

"Firstly, I haven't assumed anything. Secondly; a 'bad guy?' I don't buy that, James. And neither should you!" His gaze hardened when it flicked back to her again but she pressed on anyway. "It's always more complicated than that." She stood, coming to stand beside him, easing herself between him and the wall so she could look up into his face. Tentatively she reached out to lay a hand on his arm. He tensed. Iris hid a sigh, continuing as calmly as she could. "Besides, I've never bought into the whole 'good guy' or 'bad guy' thing. Things are never that simple." The look he gave her this time was dark; metaphoric dark.

"In this case, it is that simple." She was completely taken aback at the way he snarled it at her. "I'm not a good person, Iris! I'm a monster. They're after me for good reason." But Iris' own temper, relatively insubstantial as it normally might be, was building. She firmly shook her head, meeting his glare with her own.

"I don't believe you."

"I told you what I am," he snapped, "You have no idea this kinds of things I've done." He wanted to snap at her? Fine. She could snap and snarl right back.

"Could one of Tony Stark's suits be considered morally accountable for the damage they cause? No. They're machines. They do what they're programmed to do. Yes, you told me and yes, you're right; I have no idea what all you've done. But I do know one thing. What they did to you? They stripped you of your humanity, made you little more than a breathing machine. You may have done those horrible things, but it's the ones who gave the orders who bear the blame for what they forced you to do. And yes, James, if you had no control, no will of your own, no way to say no, it was forced.

"There is no way you can argue otherwise." Even stunned as he was by her passionate outburst she could tell he didn't believe her. She could also see in his face when he realized he wasn't going to be able to change her mind on this. She saw it in the way his steel-blue eyes grew veiled. So instead he switched tracks.

"They can't be allowed to find me, Iris. They can't. I can't let them." The look she gave him was one of pure incredulity, though she knew her own hazel eyes were likely flashing with irritation as well. He practically growled, his hands running up and over his head as he turned away from her, swiping his dark hair out of his face as he fought to rein in his own frustration. He turned back to her again, glaring at her. Iris couldn't help the way she flinched at the harsh, desperate look in his eyes, her back brushing against the wall.

"Iris, I can't protect you from them. They'll use you—they'll _kill_ you—to get to me. That's why I need to leave." Iris stared at him in bewilderment.

"What? James, you're not making any sense! Use me? Kill me?" He flinched at the words but she plowed on, forcibly ignoring the tremor of fear fluttering in her chest at how utterly serious he was that her life was in danger, "you just said these were—were 'good guys'! Sam, whatever his name is, said they want to _help_ you. Why on earth would 'good guys' want to kill me? And how would that help them get to you?" James blanched but his agitation grew, ratcheting up another notch. His eyes were nearly wild with it.

"Not them, _them_ , the ones Steve and this Wilson guy want to keep me from. The ones who want to use me as a weapon. I can't protect you from them," he said imploringly, his voice cracking under the strain, "and I can't protect you from _me_." Iris' eyes widened, shocked into silence by the blatant terror in his eyes. The fury building within her died at the look in his eyes. She just couldn't maintain it in the face of that much panic and dread.

"You don't need to," she whispered, "you wouldn't hurt me, James." His eyes slid shut; he wanted to believe her so desperately it seemed to physically hurt him.

And then his hands were slamming against the wall on either side of her, the wall cracking and yielding beneath the force of the blow. His arms caged her in as he loomed in front of her, his gaze bizarrely devoid of feeling yet still, somehow, tormented. Iris jerked, her pulse thundering in her ears at the shock of how quickly he'd moved. But strangely she wasn't actually afraid in the slightest, no matter the feral, opaque gaze he had fixed her with. Whatever he was trying to prove with the violent action, the implied threat, she didn't believe it.

"You wouldn't hurt me," she repeated softly, not allowing herself to shrink into the wall…nor to lean into him. She could feel the heat pouring off his skin and she suddenly wanted more than anything to melt into it, to prove through her touch that she trusted him; it was an assurance he'd always believed more than words before. But she didn't drop his gaze. He grimaced at her assertion, grief and self-loathing breaking through the savage look to dominate his features.

"I could. I would. If I heard the wor—if they activ—if the order were given—" he broke off, snapping his mouth shut at the words threatening to tumble out. "It wouldn't matter how I feel about you. I wouldn't be able to stop myself." Only then did her eyes widen with shock. There was no exaggeration there. Only cold, hard fact. It was a glimpse past the barricades he'd erected to keep his past in the past; to keep it from her. More than that, it was a glimpse at the feelings he always fought to keep under tight control. Right now, that control was all but gone, she realized. And it was his fear for her that was causing him to lose it.

But it wasn't so much fear or horror or even what he'd said that shocked Iris, but rather what it all meant; he cared about her as much as she cared about him. This was a man who had no choice but to let few people get close and even fewer in. This was a man who didn't allow himself to feel—who, until not long before he'd come into her life, hadn't even been allowed to feel. A flash of horror did go through her then as she was met with the first true realization of the sorts of things hidden in this man's past. But it wasn't horror at him, but for what had been done to him. She couldn't even begin to guess, much less fathom it.

And what she'd seen only scratched the surface.

He was trying to scare her away, she realized as she registered the determination and the despair in his eyes. Well, she wasn't about to be scared away. Not when he needed her.

She reached up then, brushing her fingers along his clenched jaw, as though her touch could ease the tension there. "Please," she whispered, "stay." His eyes widened and his breathing grew ragged with shock as her fingers stilled, resting flush against his cheek.

And then his hand, his flesh one, closed around her wrist. A war raged behind his eyes as his arm trembled, caught between pressing her hand closer or shoving it away. A pained sound vibrated up through his chest, sending a shiver through Iris as he leaned closer, his forehead brushing against hers.

And then he was gone.


	13. Chapter 13

He hadn't come back.

For the first time since the night of the drive-by Iris was left to fall asleep in her own bed—alone—rather than nestled against James on the couch. She missed it. She missed _him_. It had only been a matter of weeks but already she'd grown so used to him holding her as she fell asleep. And because of it, tonight sleep just would not come.

Well, that wasn't the only reason, but it certainly didn't help.

So she lay awake, staring at the shadows shifting across the ceiling or at the dim wash of light seeping through the semi-sheer curtains that kept the harshness of the streetlamps out of her room. Exhaustion pulled at her, emotional and otherwise, but the turmoil of her thoughts kept her mind wide-awake. Her head was far too jumbled and scattered to calm enough to let her sleep. It was too full of James.

He cared about her enough to try and scare her away no matter how much the effort had ripped at him. She'd seen the agony in his eyes as he tried to frighten or horrify her into giving up on him both with words and with actions. But she wouldn't be so easily persuaded. Didn't he understand she was willing to fight for him? That she wanted to help him pick up the pieces of his shattered life?

That she'd be willing to follow him?

No, she realized as she lay in the empty, lonely darkness of her bedroom. No, he wouldn't. He couldn't understand that she could possibly see what she saw in him. He genuinely believed he was a monster, that he wasn't worth her kindness or her understanding.

Or her love.

It still baffled her to even consider that phrase as she rolled it over and over again in her head. But it was weirdly and simply true. She'd fallen in love with James Barnes. She'd fallen in love with a man whose past was a patchwork of memories he grasped to hold onto and others he desperately wished he didn't have. A man who had killed, who'd assassinated; yes, she could read between the lines. He'd been some sort of mercenary soldier. He'd been tortured and brainwashed until he hadn't known who he was anymore.

He didn't know just how much she knew, or just how many of the pieces she'd put together. But she was not an idiot and she while she wasn't dogged in her attention to the news, she had been just as transfixed by the sensational stories that had gripped the news cycle in the days surrounding the collapse of S.H.I.E.L.D. and the chaos that had gripped DC when the Helicarriers had fallen from the sky.

It had taken time and seeing the footage again on the TVs at work, but she had finally figured it out a week or so ago. It was hard not to when they replayed footage caught on traffic cams of a stunning fight between Captain America and a mysterious masked man with a mirror-bright metal arm every few weeks. It was an arm she'd touched. An arm that had saved her life. An arm that belonged to the man she'd grown to care for far quicker than she'd ever believed possible.

She'd fallen in love with the Winter Soldier.

Did that make her a horrible person? Anyone else would have long reported him to the police at least. As the leaked S.H.I.E.L.D. files circulated and were painstakingly dissected, sparse smatterings of information had come to light about him. He was 'the Asset'; a HYDRA assassin. His identity hadn't been definitively leaked—Iris had yet to hear any newscasters or reporters call him by anything other than the Winter Soldier—and neither had she seen any images of his face released. But the last few weeks especially had seen a great deal of speculation on who he was, what he was responsible for and where he was now. It was the interest stirred up by the new details that led to the footage reemerging that had her finally making the connection.

And they were speculating that he'd done some pretty horrible things…monstrous things. Eyewitness accounts suggested that he'd opened fire on a crowded street at one point in an attempt to kill Captain America. Others said he was responsible for assassinating a high-level government agent mere days before the Helicarrier thing. How could she possibly love a man responsible for such awful things? How could she not want to report him immediately?

Because it wasn't him who'd done it. Not really. It was something she was absolutely certain of, her feelings for him nonwithstanding. She'd seen the anguish in him as he struggled to recall what he'd done, when he confessed that he believed himself a monster. She'd seen how broken he was by whatever had been done to him to make him into the Winter Soldier. He was so defeated and vulnerable in the face of his past. But he was still determined to protect her from it, from what he was, including from finding out; it's why she hadn't been able to figure out a way to tell him that she knew yet. And he just accepted the blame for what he had done as HYDRA's puppet soldier without offering a single excuse for his actions, and it was crushing him beneath its weight. She'd seen how hard he was grasping at whatever he could to try and piece himself back together. She'd seen the scars on his body and the near constant discomfort the cybernetic arm had to cause him. And that was mild pain compared to what was going on inside his head, to the scars on his psyche that she'd only caught mere glimpses of. What he'd done as the Winter Soldier warred with the man that he was.

He hadn't wanted any of it. It had all been forced upon him.

And now he had to live with it.

Angrily she swiped away the tears that had begun trickling down her face as her overactive mind rehashed the injustices done to James over and over again.

No, she concluded. It wasn't the Winter Soldier she'd fallen in love with. It was James. She loved James. The man whose lip tugged when he saw her and who took her up to the roof for night-time picnics. The man who'd laughed for the first time in who knew how long when she brought him burgers. The man who had gotten her a real sunflower that was now mere days from blooming; no other guy she'd been close to had ever even thought to do that. The man who was unfailingly courteous and would open doors for her and push in her chair when she sat down at the table or stand when she entered the room. The man who had held her close every evening for the past several nights as she fell asleep because she'd asked him to, because he made her feel safe, because he felt the desire to protect her.

The man who was willing to sacrifice what little happiness he had in his life to keep her safe.

The man who would rather run for the rest of his life rather than let himself be used as a weapon again.

The man she'd been dreaming about for what suddenly felt like a lifetime.

More tears leaked from her eyes as her chest constricted. How was she ever going to let him go when he left? Because he was going to leave. There was no doubt about that anymore. It physically hurt to consider that he might have already. Iris shifted, turning onto her side, curling her knees nearly up to her chest as she scrubbed away more tears, sniffling hard against the ugly sob that threatened.

She didn't even feel herself finally falling asleep, her mind fixed on the vulnerable, desolate way he'd been looking at her when she'd laid a hand against his cheek, looking past the wild violence he'd tried to hide behind. He'd looked utterly destroyed, craving the contact but feeling there was no way he deserved it.

She didn't realize she had fallen asleep until she woke.

And when she woke she realized she wasn't alone.

James sat on the end of her bed, elbows braced on his knees, hands fisted tightly together. He was watching her, but his gaze was so far away it was as if he didn't quite see her.

But then he realized she was no longer asleep, his fathomless eyes, midnight-hued in the dark, latching onto hers as he straightened, standing slowly. The pained expression she could just barely see on his face through the shadows melted away into one of sad resignation. Her chest constricted again but the tears she'd been fighting earlier didn't come. He looked so tired, so worn down and crushed. So lost. Alone.

Slipping her arm out from beneath the covers Iris held out her hand to him, her eyes never leaving his face. He wasn't alone. He didn't have to be alone. His gaze dipped to her outstretched hand, hesitation and uncertainty flickering in the darkened blue depths. Her silent plea hung in the air between them: _please stay_.

He took her hand, obeying the silent pressure of her fingers to sink down onto the mattress and slipping beneath the covers as she pulled him toward her.

And then she was in his arms again, pressing herself against him as he tucked her beneath his chin, breathing her in as he wrapped her tighter in his embrace. Iris wrapped her own arms around his waist, her hands tracing up his back. A shiver went through her as the cool metal of his cybernetic arm brushed against her skin, the sensation curiously pleasant. Surrounded by him, relief that he was still _here_ with her coursing through her, she inhaled deeply, nuzzling against his neck, feeling like she could get drunk on the scent of him; warm and male and safe.

In an impulsive move that might have surprised her any other time, she pressed her mouth against the exposed skin of his breastbone, just over the collar of his shirt. The ensuing startled groan that rumbled through him at her movement sent a shock of warmth flooding through her. Warmth and heat and electricity. Emboldened by the sound, she was soon brushing her lips from his collarbone to where his pulse was quickly thrumming beneath his jaw. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted to kiss him for real. She wanted him to know what he was to her. She wanted him to know how she felt.

She just wanted him. All of him.

And when he began to tremble, his body involuntarily pressing hard against hers as her lips continued their ministrations, drawing closer to his own, she knew he wanted her too.

But just as she was about to press her mouth to his, a primal groan vibrated through him. Before she could react he had moved, shifting so that she was no longer simply in his arms but sheltered beneath him.

The moment stretched on for an eternity as he held himself above her, arms braced and tense to either side. She wanted to feel more of him, to run her hands up those arms, flesh and metal alike, to pull him down to her. To trace her fingers across his face, his lips. To feel the sculpted muscles of his powerful frame. To feel him touching her back, turning her skin to charged fire. But she was suddenly afraid he'd disappear if she did. So she simply lay beneath him, hands gripping tight to his bicep and shoulder where they'd landed when he'd moved, fingers fisting in the fabric of his shirt, forcing herself to be patient lest he spook and flee.

He lowered his forehead to rest against hers, eyes half-lidded as he trembled, breath coming quickly as he struggled between a desperate wish to stay and the long-ingrained compulsion to leave. She finally let herself move, to reach up and touch him, her hand rising to cup his face. He shuddered at the touch, his flesh arm warm as he shifted again, running his own hand up her side, skimming beneath her nightshirt. It left her skin tingling, hot and flushed.

Then his lips were brushing across the skin of her throat, the rough, scratching feel of his stubbled jaw electrifying on her suddenly hypersensitive skin as his metal fingers, shockingly cool compared to the heat flooding beneath her skin, buried themselves in her hair. He was hesitant at first before his mouth grew greedy, hungry. Iris couldn't help the whimper that escaped her as he latched onto a sensitive spot below her jaw, nipping and kissing at the tender flesh, sucking hard enough that she knew he was going to leave a mark.

Gasping at the sensations he was arousing in her, she was soon tugging at the shirt that separated her from feeling his skin. Though he tensed, freezing for a moment as he realized what she was asking, he complied, pulling back even as her hands shoved his shirt up his torso. In an instant the offending garment was tugged away and, as soon as it was, her arms wound around him of their own volition, fingers curled into the flesh of his shoulders and back, growing desperate to feel more of him against her.

As his name left her lips with a heady sigh, whatever had been holding him back snapped and he pulled her against him.

And they were both lost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note on the end of this chapter: while this story is rated M, it is rated so for safety. It's not going to get much more explicit than that^ I probably could get away with a lower rating (since I have read lower-rated fics with far more explicit sexual encounters, etc. than I have chosen to include), and while it is done in what I like to think is a tasteful way, I'd rather air on the side of caution. Hence the rating.
> 
> So if you were hoping for all-out smut, I'm afraid you're not getting it in this story, my lovelies. It didn't feel like it fit with the tone of the story, this time. My other Marvel story "The Ghost", however… it does have smut….so I'm not opposed to it… ;)
> 
> Thank you for reading!


	14. Chapter 14

He came back.

He stayed.

As she felt sleep overtaking her where she lay wrapped in his arms, it was those two thoughts that echoed through her mind. As their skin cooled and his breath evened out beneath her cheek she smiled.

He'd come back. And he stayed. So perhaps there was hope. Perhaps what he felt for her and what she'd come to feel for him would be enough. They would figure something out. Perhaps she wouldn't have to say goodbye. She sighed, stretching out beside him, her fingers unconsciously tracing over the muscled expanse of his chest and abdomen, his skin still warm and faintly damp as their mingled sweat lingered in the aftermath of their love making.

He hadn't said a word save to breathe her name against her skin as he moved inside her and as he came, bringing her with him, but she'd felt how much she meant to him in every touch, every reverent caress. Like she was precious, beautiful, priceless. She was certain it wasn't mere wishful thinking on her part. She'd seen it in his eyes.

Yet he still hadn't kissed her.

But just now, lying nestled against him, savoring the solid, _real_ warmth of him it seemed a mere detail. He wanted to. There had been moments when he'd come so close, his lips ghosting over hers while never quite touching, but there had always been a trace of trepidation, of anxiety and apology when he hesitated.

That he had touched her at all, much less given into what they had just shared, seemed nearly a miracle to Iris. For almost as long as she'd known him he had made a point not to, and even after she discovered the truth of his cybernetic arm he'd always been so careful to keep it away from her. Like he didn't want to contaminate her with what the bionic enhancement—prosthetic?—represented. That he seemed genuinely afraid to kiss her, no matter that it was obvious his feelings for her ran as deep as her own? She couldn't fathom feeling so broken, so tainted, that a simple kiss felt beyond what he deserved. It broke her heart to think he didn't feel worthy of kissing her. Because that's what it was; she could see it. She saw it on the roof all those nights ago and she saw it this night when, even as his touch seemed to set her skin on fire, he still held himself back from that small but significant intimacy even as they had given into a greater, far more encompassing one.

But just now she couldn't bring herself to dwell on it. He was beside her, holding her, both of them languorous and sated from the passion that had burned through their joined bodies. And that meant more to her than a kiss. It would happen, one day. She was sure of it. This night was a promise; they would figure something out.

Sleep tugged at her ever more persistently and her fingers slowly stilled as she nuzzled drowsily into the crook of his neck one final time before it took her. And as she slipped into dreams, those two small words that had come to mean so much more breathed past her lips to brush against his skin. They sounded as much like an 'I love you' as actually saying it would have.

"Please stay."

The last thing she remembered was the feel of his lips brushing against her forehead as his arms tightened protectively around her.

She slept soundly.

So soundly that she very nearly didn't feel him slipping from her embrace as the first morning light began seeping through the curtains. Dimly, she felt him leaning back down, his breath whispering against her ear as he spoke soft words her more than half-asleep mind could barely process. But she didn't come truly awake until she heard the barely-there sound of her apartment door easing shut.

It was only then that Iris was pulling herself up, not completely realizing that he'd actually left—even wondering if he'd been there at all for a terrifying split-second—until a distant, distinct creak came from the stairs outside her apartment door. A gasping breath ripped through Iris' chest.

In an instant she was pulling on whatever clothes came to hand before she was racing after him, panic fluttering in her stomach, the words he whispered only now hissing with perfect clarity through her mind as she all but flew down the stairs to his apartment. The apartment he hadn't really occupied since that first night weeks before when she'd asked him to stay.

The door was unlocked and the key was on the counter.

She didn't have to pass the threshold to know it was empty. She didn't even close the door as she backed away, spinning to burst through the front door, down the steps and out onto the sidewalk.

It was still early, the morning still bathed in that crisp, bright quality that only seemed to appear in the first few hours of sunlight. The street with its rows of skinny townhouses was virtually deserted, the air still damp and chilled. Car windshields glimmered with condensation that the sun hadn't quite built the strength to burn off yet. Here and there birds chittered and chirped as they flitted and skittered across the sidewalks. It was a beautiful morning.

But Iris didn't notice. She was too busy scanning the street for any sign of James. Her eyes darted every which way, hoping to catch a glimpse of his faded army-green jacket or his dark grey ball-cap over a car roof or past a lightpost.

"James?" She barely even realized she'd started calling for him until the near panicked sound of her own voice shattered the stillness of the street, causing the birdsong to falter. A tremor had woken in her chest, feeling like her insides were quaking. "James!"

Desperation was quickly beginning to take hold as she scoured the street around her, certain he couldn't have gotten far. She'd been right behind him. If she could just find him, they could talk this out. She could get him to stop and think for a moment, long enough to reconsider. "James!"

The cheerful chirping of the birds was the only sound breaking the silence of the morning; it sounded like nails on a chalkboard to Iris. It was getting harder and harder to deny what had happened.

He'd left.

The realization crushed in on her, her eyes blurring as angry, hurt tears began welling in her eyes and throat, strangling her as she struggled to breathe. A shuddering sob tore from her chest as she fought the tears back, her arms wrapping around herself as the tremors began shaking her whole body, no longer content to stay confined to her chest.

"James…" It was the last one, her voice cracking and despondent, no longer a plea or a shout for him to appear or wait, but an aching admittance of understanding.

He'd left.

Her legs were shaking badly enough that she all but collapsed back onto her front steps, landing with a painful jarring on the cold concrete. But she scarcely noticed. The tears finally came, though she still fought to keep the wracking sobs she knew were coming at bay. She hugged herself tighter, her knees folding up to sandwich her arms against her chest as she curled in on herself. His last, whispered words echoed hoarsely in her ears, shredding her self-control as the reality of what had happened settled heavily around her.

 _I'm sorry, Iris_.

Their night together hadn't been a promise.

It had been goodbye.

Quiet as her sobs were, they still seemed to echo in the nearly empty street. They ripped through the man who had caused them as he forced himself to witness what he'd done to the woman he loved before he turned and disappeared silently over the rooftops.


	15. Chapter 15

He was laughing. He was happy. He'd been in the midst of a war but he'd still been able to smile. He was whole.

Iris was utterly speechless looking down at the old reels as they played beneath the exhibit display bearing the face she had come to love. It was _him_. But it also wasn't. This was Bucky Barnes. Confident, clean-cut and charming. He was so sure of himself and who he was. Sure that he was doing the right thing and proud to do it. Watching him standing next to Captain Rogers—smiling, laughing together—it nearly broke her heart all over to realize that this was James before he'd been broken.

He'd been happy.

Whole.

She could see traces of the man she'd come to love—that tug at the corner of his mouth when he was trying not to smile or the glint in his eye when he laughed—in this man from the past. The only Howling Commando casualty.

He'd lost so much more than just his life.

Her chest clenched watching him. Perhaps this had been a mistake. It had been hard enough when she'd first discovered this place. Her hand gripped tighter around her phone, fighting yet another battle to call it off. She wasn't sure if she could do this. But the part of her that had made this choice insisted it was her only chance. As soon as she had noticed the creased card sitting on the windowsill, still laying where she'd left it that last day, she'd known it was likely her only real option. There was no way she had the know-how or the resources to search for him on her own. It had still taken weeks to convince herself that she was right.

She'd sent only a single text to that number.

_The Captain America Exhibit at the Smithsonian tomorrow at 3. You know which display. -Iris_

It had been days before she could pull herself back together after he left. Weeks to feel almost normal. She'd tried to hate him, to push him from her mind for what he did to her, tried to tell herself she was better off only to fail miserably in the attempt. She _understood_ why. And every time she tried to convince herself that she was angry at how badly he'd hurt her—that she should despise him for leaving her like that—the things he'd said, the fears he'd seen in his eyes always came back to her. She'd played their conversations over and over in her mind. Especially that last one after Sam Wilson had approached her on the street.

And she tried very hard not to replay the night that followed.

It hurt too much.

For that she still wanted to hate him. God, part of her still did. But the part of her that still loved him, that saw past his leaving just as she'd seen past his attempts to frighten her away from him, drowned out her anger and resentment.

Neither could she forget that part of what happened between them that night was on her too. That he'd left—worse, that he'd left without even saying a proper goodbye after what had happened between them—was him, all him…but she was the one who had invited him into her bed. She was the one who had initiated their love making. Had she not, she knew he wouldn't have dared. It wasn't in his character. Especially suspecting as she did that he had intended to leave before even entering her apartment that night. Heck, he probably hadn't been expecting her to wake up at all. She had encouraged him, implored with her touch and her kisses—not that it had taken a great deal of effort—but she'd seen the hesitation in his eyes and felt it in his body, yet she'd asked anyway. She knew he'd never been able to deny her, especially not when he wanted it as much as she did.

She was the one who asked him to stay.

Now there was a small, cruel voice in her head that pointed out how much harder she must have made it for him to leave. Despite not knowing a great deal about him, or knowing even a fraction of the things he'd done, she still _knew_ him. She knew how he felt about her, and she knew he wasn't the kind of man who would trivialize what they'd shared; far from it. She knew he wouldn't have left if he hadn't believed he'd had no other choice. Especially not after their night together.

But damn, part of her still wanted to hate him.

Yet, she was also beginning to realize that it wasn't really hate anymore; she didn't hate him—she couldn't, not really—but she was still furious with him. She felt betrayed. She was angry that he'd left her without any trace of explanation or even a proper goodbye. She was angry that he hadn't trusted her enough to tell her why, or to believe that she would _understand_ if he'd told her that he'd needed to leave—or at least, she would have tried to.

That was what was angering and hurting her more than the fact that he'd left.

More than the fact that, no matter how hard she tried, she couldn't put him from her mind…and she didn't want to.

No matter how hard she tried to hate him or forget him, she simply couldn't. She simply didn't want to.

She still loved him, and as she began to wake from the torpor of miserable betrayal and anger, she accepted that she wanted, even needed, to have him back in her life again. So she scoured her memories for any clue, any hint that could lead her to him.

It was that last conversation—fight, really—that stuck out in her thoughts, as though her subconscious had been certain there was a clue there that would lead her to him. It had taken a few more weeks still to put the pieces together.

 _Not them,_ them _, the ones Steve and this Wilson guy want to keep me from._

_Steve and this Wilson guy._

Steve.

She'd never mentioned the name Steve and neither had Wilson when he'd spoken to her. James had supplied that name himself; he'd known who was after him, who Sam Wilson was working with. And as if it were a trigger, that one sentence brought back other, earlier conversations.

 _I went to the exhibit at the Smithsonian the day after you told me about it. The one for Steve…or rather, Captain America_.

 _Steve…or rather, Captain America_.

It was familiar, the way he'd spoken the legendary soldier's real name, like it was comfortable. Like he had to consciously remember that everyone else knew him as Captain America.

_What do you know about Steve Rogers?_

He knew him.

They knew each other.

And Sam had said he and his friend wanted to help James.

His friend Steve.

She'd scoured the Internet after that for the uncut video of the Washington Freeway fight between Captain America and the Winter Soldier. It'd taken some time to find; most of the versions available were ones edited for dramatic effect by the news networks. Once she'd found it, she'd watched it over and over again. Every time she had winced with every hit James took and every time she'd shuddered at every hit he gave. She'd barely been able to breathe watching the raw power the pair of them brought to bear on each other, enough to crumple cars and crack pavement. It was incredible to watch in every sense of the word. But it was the end of the fight she watched the most; when the Captain threw James nearly over his head, sending him rolling across the pavement. When James had stood the Captain had gone rigid. It took dozens more replays before Iris realized why: the Captain had recognized James…or rather, he'd recognized Bucky. Once she realized that, his confusion and disbelief was unmistakable even in the grainy surveillance video footage.

The next day she'd gone to the Exhibition on Captain America for the first time. She didn't know what she had expected to find, but what she found was not what she expected. Not even close.

She'd stood in front of the James Buchanan "Bucky" Barnes display until the museum had closed, watching the reels and staring at the photos on the interactive display trying to come to terms with it all, fighting past angry disbelief, then skepticism, then betrayal, then a simple, overwhelming sadness. She read the captions over and over until she could have recited them in her sleep. Really, it explained a lot. His manners, the courteous way he treated her, the odd outdated turn of phrase he'd used, the odd time he'd look completely out of his depth in the face of well-known modern references or significant recent events. She pegged it to simple quirks at first, finding it endearing, or to his memory being in shreds. Now she knew they were the hallmarks of being born and raised in another era.

It had been a lot to wrap her head around, and a bitter part of her wanted to reject the whole revelation out of hand. But then, once she considered everything else she had accepted about him, or when she thought about the other outlandish realities in their world she'd come to accept—Aliens in New York? In Greenwich?—it really wasn't that crazy. Captain America had been frozen in the arctic ice for seventy years or so. Who was to say something similar hadn't happened to James.

So no. It wasn't as hard to accept as it might have been before she came to know him.

She just wished he'd told her. Then she wondered if he even knew anymore.

Then she wished he was simply there.

She'd cried herself to sleep again that night.

The next morning she'd noticed Sam's card still sitting on the windowsill, the crisp, dark text muted under a layer of dust.

That afternoon she'd made her decision.

It was over a week after that before she'd acted on that decision.

Iris reached out, fingers tracing over the image of James on the screen.

A hand tentatively brushed against her shoulder, jolting her from her thoughts. Abruptly she realized the hot, damp trails running down her face were tears. She briskly swiped them away before turning to look up at the man she'd arranged to meet. It was several moments before she gathered up the will to speak. Her eyes slid back down to the reels again. It was of the Howling Commandos gathered around a map spread out on the hood of a jeep, going over strategy and making plans. James—Bucky looked down at the maps, his handsome face focused and thoughtful as he listened to the Captain speak.

"I can't help but wonder what they did to him." The words fell out of her mouth of their own volition, her voice hollow and anguished. "I mean, I suppose, in the abstract, I do…but still…" Sam Wilson looked down at her, the reassuring weight of his hand landing on her shoulder. When she glanced up at him again she could recognize the sympathy in his dark eyes. She could also recognize the eager light that told her how hard he was trying not to grill her about why she'd contacted him. She sighed heavily before forcibly turning herself away from the display.

"I suppose you want to know why I wanted to meet, Mr. Wilson." Sam nodded.

"Sam's fine. And I imagine it's to do with him," he tilted his head in the direction of the display, his eyes sharply observant as he watched her. She forced a deep breath into her lungs before nodding. The trace of a vindicated smile appeared on his face. "So you have seen him. You know where he is?" No matter that she tried hide it, her shoulders sagged at the question. Mutely she shook her head.

Disappointment overtook vindication and Sam made a frustrated noise. "He's gone, then," he said quietly. The familiar tremor of hurt and missing reemerged in her chest. Beside her, Sam looked up at the display they stood in front of. Between the two of them, they were effectively blocking anyone else from looking at it. Iris couldn't quite bring herself to care. A little part of her irrationally wanted to keep everyone else away from it anyway, to keep the display all about him to herself. She shook the thought out of her head. She was slowly regaining the control her melancholy, resentment and heartbreak had stripped from her, allowing her sense of purpose to slowly reemerge. She wasn't about to fall back on wallowing just now.

After a moment Sam turned back to her, having regrouped as best he could from the realization that he wasn't about to get a new lead. But he didn't get a chance to say whatever it was he'd been about to ask next. Iris beat him to the punch.

"He was staying with me, you know." Sam frowned, and for a moment looked as though he was about to interrupt with a question. But the look Iris gave him convinced him to keep it to himself for the moment. "And I came to care for him…a great deal." Sam's eyes narrowed slightly at the way her voice nearly broke. Again, she suspected he was tempted to interrupt, but he held his tongue. She glanced back to the reel; it was playing the clip of Steve and Bucky laughing again.

"I know he's the Winter Soldier." Beside her Sam tensed. "After seeing his arm? I saw enough clips on the news to put two and two together. I never told him that I knew. I can't help but think he just would have left sooner if I had." She let out a pained sigh, suddenly feeling very tired. To say she hadn't been sleeping well was an understatement. And that wasn't even counting the emotional toll. "I know I'm likely never going to see him again," she murmured mournfully. Her chest clenched painfully with the admission. It was the first time she'd truly admitted it to herself. She very nearly couldn't continue, pressure building behind her eyes again that she fought to push back. Then her gaze snapped to Sam.

"What do you want with him," she asked abruptly. There was no waver in her voice now and her hazel eyes were fixed on Sam with a fierce focus. Sam's eyebrows rose with surprise at the change. After a moment he cleared his throat before answering.

"We want to help him," he said earnestly.

"You and Steve Rogers." He hesitated. But Iris' stare didn't falter. She could all but see him weighing whether or not to level with her. After a moment, though, he settled for the truth, gesturing toward the display.

"Yeah. Steve's his oldest friend." Iris couldn't help but give him a skeptical look at his statement of the obvious.

"A friend that he could barely remember." The reminder seemed to stump Sam for a moment, Iris' pointed responses starting to unnerve him. He was beginning to wonder if he was being played.

"I suppose you have a point there," he paused, inhaling deeply as he gave Iris a measuring glance, "but we're better than the alternative. We don't want to use him. We want to help. We can help him." While Iris was the first to admit she wasn't infallible at telling a lie from the truth, she did like to think she was pretty fair at figuring it out. Her chest felt constricted again as the conclusion that this Sam and his friend Steve genuinely wanted to help James settled around her. Only this time it was a sensation of relief.

"I want to help too." It was as though her words physically jolted Sam; she could see not just his face but also his body react to the surprise.

"I—what?" Iris' chin lifted as her lips twitched into an almost smile at the reaction she'd caused. She nodded before turning serious again.

"Whether Steve is his oldest friend or not, there's no guarantee James—Bucky will trust him the next time they meet. He certainly won't trust you. But he knows me, and I believe he—well, he knows I care about him. At the very least he knows I wouldn't betray him. I can help." It was a bluff; there was no guarantee that she'd be of any help. It was entirely possible that if he saw her coming James would simply disappear again. After all…he had left out of a desire to keep her safe. That she strangely enough didn't doubt. Even in those first few miserable days after he'd left and she'd been trying to convince herself she hated him, she hadn't been able to make herself doubt that. She just couldn't. But Sam didn't know that.

At the considering look in Sam's eyes she knew she had him. He believed her. Or at least, he knew she was possibly right. The crushing feeling on her chest eased fractionally; there was a chance. But then Sam sighed heavily.

"I don't know what it is you expect me to do, what you want me to say," he said quietly. The crushing feeling returned in full force and Iris was abruptly fighting back the prickling burn behind her eyes. She couldn't help it; her gaze was drawn back to the display. The reel had cycled back—again—to James laughing with Captain Rogers.

"Just tell me when you find him," she finally replied just as softly. She looked up to Sam again. Sympathy was written all over his face even as he struggled to prepare words of refusal, a trace of regret mingling with the sympathy. "Please…" It was a whispered plea, but it was enough to halt the words that had been about to come out of his mouth, hearing something in her voice or seeing it in her face that made him pause. She couldn't care enough to guess. Just so long as he agreed. After a long moment that found Iris feeling like someone was building a house on her chest brick by brick, he let loose another loaded sigh. And then he nodded.

"Alright. I'll do what I can." The building collapsed and Iris felt like she could breathe again, her eyes sliding shut with relief. "But—" Her eyes shot open to stare at Sam in disbelief as a flicker of mistrust threatened. His face was serious again, his dark eyes piercing as he fixed her with a look that brooked no argument. "Same goes for you too. You hear anything from him—he contacts you in any way, you remember anything about where he might have gone—you let me know." A hard pulse of resentment throbbed in her gut before she shoved it away. It was a fair request, even if his tone said it wasn't a request. And she couldn't deny she needed him. And if anything she could give him helped them to find James, it was a fair trade in her book.

So, reluctantly, she nodded her agreement.

And all that was left to do was wait.


	16. Chapter 16

It was small. It was dark. And it had a faintly unpleasant smell—somewhere between musty and something else not quite definable beyond neglected—that made his nose wrinkle involuntarily in disgust.

It wasn't the worst of the abandoned Soviet and HYDRA safehouses he'd been in during the months now that he'd been hopping around Europe.

But it was far from the best.

It took every ounce of effort and will he had not to think about a skinny little townhouse he'd left behind that, while perhaps not in the best of condition, was still lovingly tended and cared for to the best of its owner's abilities.

He couldn't let himself think about the townhouse because it inevitably led him to thinking about her.

But the comparisons forced their way into his thoughts anyway.

His backpack fell with a low, muffled thud on the grimy, wood-planked floor as he let loose a resigned breath. He couldn't help but make comparisons. The kitchen was little more than a fridge, a sink and a small countertop stove in an area barely larger than the single sagging mattress little more than a stride-length away. The wallpaper was floral, faded and flaking; it wasn't even peeling, but disintegrating on the walls. He didn't even want to look inside the tiny bathroom to his left.

It was nothing like the cozy space she had made for herself, her very presence making the small apartment she'd lived in warm and inviting with its smattering of hand-me-down furniture and outdated décor. Even the sparsely furnished apartment he'd been renting downstairs before he'd begun virtually living in hers had been infinitely nicer than this place. Compared to this matchbox of a place, her home had been a mansion. It had certainly been better kept. She'd made sure of that. She'd taken such pride in taking care of her aunt's place. It had been welcoming because of that care and that pride. Because of her.

It had been his refuge. His sanctuary.

His home.

All because of her.

He choked back his heartache at the involuntary thought, trying to push it aside as it surfaced yet again. Her home had become his home before he'd even let himself believe or even consider that he could actually have someplace to call 'home' ever again. The feeling surfaced at every abandoned and forgotten safehouse he'd stayed in in the last several months. But it was hitting him harder here. Maybe because now—for the time being, at least—he could stop running. His hands fisted, the mechanisms of his bionic arm giving off a metallic groan as he fought back the heaving waves of guilt and the longing that gnawed in the pit of his stomach.

He'd regretted leaving almost as soon as she'd been out of his sight. Hell, he'd regretted leaving before he'd even left, before he'd actually made the final decision to leave… Even now, the image of her falling to pieces on her front steps and the stifled sound of her sobs as she fought to hold them back haunted Bucky as some of his worst memories did. He'd wanted nothing more than to abandon his reasoned and rational resolve to move on in favour of the persistent and unrelenting instinct to stay. He'd wanted nothing more than to rush to her side that day and pull her into his arms, the apologies he would have laid at her mercy surging forward even as his body had taken him farther away from her.

He'd wanted nothing more than to stay.

But he'd forced himself to keep going, to keep moving, no matter that his head, his heart, his conscience and his instincts were warring with each other over leaving her.

Even here, in this cramped, dusty little apartment, they continued to war, leaving Bucky even more torn and ashamed than the day he'd left.

He shouldn't have left her.

And he definitely shouldn't have left the way he had. His heart clenched painfully, self-loathing rising with bile to choke him at his own cowardice and his own lack of self-control.

He'd never intended to go back that night, not given how shaky his resolve to go through with leaving had been, and he'd certainly never intended to fall into her embrace the way he had. Knowing as he had that he was on the verge of leaving, he'd known better than to give in to the desire—the need—to see her one last time. But that hadn't stopped him. He'd been too heartsick and tired to deny that one, simple need to see her one last time.

And then she'd woken up, and she'd held out her hand to him. The unmistakable love in her eyes and her silent plea had been his undoing. In that moment, he'd wanted nothing more than to brand the feel of her safe in his arms into his memory. So against all his better, more honorable instincts, he had given in. He'd definitely never intended to make love to her; he hadn't even allowed himself to dream of doing so.

But he could never regret it. Never. That night, despite what he knew had come the next morning, was a warm, bright place in his memory that he held onto like a lifeline. It helped keep him sane. So he couldn't regret it.

But he did regret how he'd left.

More than almost anything else he'd ever done.

He hadn't been able to face actually saying goodbye, even before she'd woken to find him sitting on the edge of her bed and before what had followed, knowing full well that she'd utter those two small words if he'd had the courage to try. And if she had, his resolve would have cracked and crumbled away.

He would have stayed. He wouldn't have been able to help himself. Not if she'd asked him to.

But another part of him knew he'd had to leave. He was good at covering his tracks. They'd made sure of that when they'd made him into what he was, and it had been knowledge that he hadn't lost despite the mess his mind had been, that it still was. It was how he'd been able to stay as long as he had. But eventually they still would have traced him to that skinny townhouse…and to her. She was safe now that he was out of her life. Yes, part of him insisted, there had been no other way. Sooner or later _they_ would have traced him to her despite his careful precautions.

The pair of HYDRA agents he'd caught following him as he'd approached the Mexican border had made that perfectly clear.

Especially when he'd gotten one of them to admit they'd picked up his trail not far outside of DC, when he'd bought his bus ticket to the West Coast and his decoy tickets to Canada and New York.

They hadn't followed him after that.

Until then he'd managed to hold onto a hope—reserved and impossible as it was, but still a hope—that he'd eventually be able to make his way back to her. He'd been telling himself that it would have been simply to watch from a distance, to make sure she was safe, but he knew that was a lie. He would have gone back to her. Hell, he'd been on the verge of turning back ever since he'd left…

But on finding the messages left on the one HYDRA agent's phone? He'd realized just how futile and dangerous a hope it had been. The texts the agents had received from their handler had made his final decision easy and all the more agonizing for it:

_Has the Asset had any further contact with the woman from DC?_

_Could she be of any use in apprehending him?_

_Assets can be mobilized to collect her if required._

Bucky's blood had run cold.

They had traced him back to Iris.

 _Unclear,_ the agent's most recent text had read, _we'll get back to you once we have him._

They hadn't been sure what her connection to him was. The texts had told him that they hadn't answered definitively yet; Bucky had made them before they could put whatever plan for capturing him into place. And they hadn't lasted long enough to decide what to do about her…or to warn their fellows they'd been made; the last outgoing call and last incoming one on both agents' phones had been made two days before the last text. As he had held the HYDRA agent's phone in hand, with barely more than a split-second of thought, he had typed out a reply and hit send.

_The woman is nothing._

Even knowing that the text—sent solely to protect her from those who would only hurt her…who would kill her without a second thought—was a blatant lie, sending it had nevertheless caused the already potent ache in his chest to grow heavier yet. Because she wasn't nothing to him.

She was everything.

His heart had sunk that day when he realized upon sending that message that he would never be able to go back to her, not even to watch over her from a distance. He couldn't risk it.

He couldn't bear putting her in danger like that again.

No matter that every night he dreamed of going back.

He'd then made it his mission to make sure she stayed as safe as he could possibly manage. And that had meant tracking down and taking out those who knew about her…the ones who had been behind the two HYDRA agents tracking him.

It had taken time, but in that he'd succeeded.

It was a small silver lining to being one of the best assassins in the world.

No. Iris was safer without him in her life. She was much better off. She deserved so much better than him, so much better than a damaged, broken, hollowed-out assassin who had far too much blood on his hands. Better than a man who barely had a grip on who he was, much less who he had once been. Better than a man who had left her the way he had… She deserved a good man whose worst crime was jaywalking on the way home from work. Not someone who had killed who knew how many people and toppled organizations and governments on the whims of evil men. Someone who could love her and take care of her the way he could have once, before he'd been destroyed and taken apart only to be pieced back together in a dark, mindless distortion of everything he'd been before.

A monster not even worthy of kissing her. He'd selfishly given into everything else, but that had been one thing he hadn't believed he was worthy to give her.

Yet he regretted that too.

Looking back now, he wished he had, that he could have shown her what she meant to him by simply letting himself kiss her. She was the best thing that had ever happened to him, and he had refused to even kiss her for the irrational fear that it would taint her. But part of him had also known it would have been the final admission; he loved her.

And if he'd admitted that, embraced it even, by letting himself kiss her? There was no way he would have been able to convince himself to do the right thing and leave her.

His eyes darted across the dirt-encrusted windows with their peeling frames, the nearly reflexive, calculating side of him already adding a plan to cover the grimy glass to the mental checklist he'd begun forming even as another part of him planned escape routes and analyzed tactical weaknesses to the tiny apartment.

But despite the distraction, part of him railed and raged against the way he was still trying to convince himself she was better off without him.

He knew he was definitely not better off without her in his life. The tenuous tether he'd had over his mind had weakened the farther away from her he'd run. Even the focus hunting down the people who had destroyed him and the HYDRA agents who had threatened her safety hadn't been enough to compensate. The stability and the comfort of her in his life had steadied him in a way he hadn't expected. He hadn't realized just how much of a calming effect she'd had on his shattered mind until she'd no longer been there. So much of the progress he'd made since she'd fallen into his life had eroded away with the stress and tension of being on the run…and the remorse and guilt over what he'd done to her…and the sheer hollowness in him from missing her.

He leaned back against the door, sagging beneath the weight of his guilt and his self-loathing as it pressed down on him.

He just needed to keep reminding himself that this was for the best. That she was safe because he'd left.

And he pointedly ignored that, with each passing day, it was feeling more and more like a poor consolation.


	17. Chapter 17

The sunflower had lasted all summer.

But by the time Autumn turned to Winter the vibrant yellow had faded and the lively green had begun to brown and weaken as the plant reached the end of its life. By the time the first snow fell it was long gone.

And Iris couldn't handle being in that house anymore. When it had just been memories of her Aunt Lynne tied to the skinny townhouse it had felt good to stay, like she was staying close to her aunt's memory by staying in her home. But then James came into her life…and then he left. It became too much. It wasn't long before the feeling of _missing_ was overwhelming. The feeling of loss that she'd felt over losing her aunt had begun to ease by the time James appeared in her doorway. And then he became a fixture in her life far quicker than Iris could have ever anticipated.

Then he'd left. The weight of missing him on top of still missing her aunt tipped the balance. It was too much to stay in that house. She justified it with practical reasons; she couldn't find reliable tenants, the payments were too much, she was just one person in a house meant for many. She could keep finding reasons if she wanted.

But the truth of the matter was that everywhere she looked all she saw was what she'd lost:

…Her aunt humming off-key as she paid bills and organized her bookkeeping at the chipped formica kitchen table…

…Her mom bickering lightly with her aunt over take-out as a very young Iris sat near the window, fighting the temptation to reach out to fiddle with her aunt's collection of sunflower-etched glasses…

…Moving in with her aunt after her mom died and Lynne somehow making her feel like she always belonged there…

…Sneaking in in the middle of the night and thinking she'd gotten away with it until her aunt called out 'goodnight' from behind her closed and dark bedroom door…

…Watching bad reality TV with her aunt as they sat on the couch with their nachos and tried to out-do each other with disparaging commentary…

…Hugging her aunt before running out the door because she was late for work…

…James appearing, holding out that sad piece of newspaper…

…James smiling each time she agreed to join him on the roof for dinner or just to sit and watch the world go by…

…The bewildered look on his face melting into one of tentative delight the first time she'd leaned over the back of the couch to wrap her arms around him in a hug…

...The indignant look he'd given her when she'd teased him about how adorable the cleft in his chin was only for him to pay her back in kind with an impish glint in his eyes as he teased her about how adorable she was when she was frustrated…

…His eyes twinkling and lip tugging when he caught her grumbling loudly about the bookkeeping that her aunt always seemed to have so little trouble managing…

…Him showing up outside the fire-escape door right as she was getting in after a shift as though knowing she'd had a rough day…

…Pulling her into his arms in a spontaneous attempt to teach her to dance, his lips tugging at her clumsy attempts to follow along even as he managed to twirl her around…

…The faint, pleased sound of a sigh easing out of his chest as she curled up next to him on the couch…

…That last night…

By the time spring rolled around the house was up for sale. Fixing it up and scouring it clean with fervent vigor had gotten her through the winter; well, that and the regular texts and phone calls she exchanged with Sam Wilson, begging for updates on his search for James. Even though he never had anything new to tell her, it was still comforting, not only that he was still answering her, but that he was still looking, that he was still working to find James.

But selling her aunt's old house was still one of the hardest decisions Iris had ever made, but the hurt that came from staying had long since begun to outweigh the memories. By some miracle when it managed to sell over the summer it went for just enough that the debt she was left with after dealing with the mortgage and outstanding bills and the like was far less than she had feared. It eased the worries the practical side of her had. But the sentimental side…

She'd been a wreck the last night she'd spent in the skinny townhouse. Most of it she'd spent curled up on the couch, the TV on in the background though it might as well been off for all she paid it any attention. Around her everything had already been packed up into boxes she'd scrounged from work and grocery stores, ready to either be moved to the small apartment she'd found a couple blocks away or donated. Not that there'd been all that much to pack anyway; neither she nor her aunt had been much into 'stuff.' After a while she'd tried falling asleep in her own bed. That had been an abject failure. It was only when she'd circled back to the couch, wrapped tight in a navy plaid button-up with a ragged left sleeve that she'd finally been able to drift into even a restless sleep. It had been faint, but it had still smelled like him.

She couldn't help but wonder sometimes if there was something wrong with her…like she should have gotten over him by now…

And of course she'd dreamed about him. She dreamt about him most nights, reliving the time she'd had with him. Or they'd be of sad, sweet little moments that lasted for an eternity where he was simply _there_ with her. Others still were heart-pounding, terrifying nightmares where the enigmatic _them_ were hunting him with ominous glittering weapons that threw spotlights on them even as they ran and hid, his body pressing hard against hers as he crushed her behind him, shielding her so she couldn't see, couldn't breath, his body going slick and warm and sticky as blood began to soak her dreams. She woke from those ones hoarse and aching, her mind still spinning and sick with terror. And most of the time, whether in nightmares or otherwise, they'd end the same way; him leaning in, breath ghosting across her skin, his lips just a hair's breadth from hers…and she would wake up. Even in dreams she wasn't allowed to simply kiss him.

But arguably the worst ones were the ones where he was simply gone; the street empty and silent with the air pressing down on her like a weight; the day he left only worse…

And she always woke desperately wishing he was there. Even now, in her new place, well over a year since he'd left, the feeling hadn't eased.

It was funny; she had now spent many, many more nights without falling asleep next to him since he'd left than she ever had with him. And yet, all these months later, she still found herself missing the reassurance of his presence or the quiet, comforting sound of his breathing as she drifted off.

A part of her even missed being woken by his nightmares. More than once in the short time she'd spent sleeping next to him she'd woken to find him caught in the grip of tormented dreams, his skin damp and clammy beneath her cheek as a sheen of cold sweat accompanied his ragged breaths. His murmuring voice hoarse with more than just sleep, reciting numbers—the sequence 32557038 was now branded in her memory thanks to him—or muttering in what sounded like Russian. More than once she'd been pulled from her own dreams as his muscles twitched, his heart pounding loudly enough she could swear she heard it in the deep silence of the dark, early morning hours. His whole body would tense with remembered agony as his face crumpled with despair and fear, his eyes roaming and frenzied beneath his lids.

The first time it had happened she'd been frozen with uncertainty, transfixed and beset with a feeling of helplessness as he shuddered in the grip of his dreams…or were they memories… She'd been jolted from her alarmed vigil when a pained moan deep in his throat had his brows furrowing deeper and his mouth twisting into a grimace. Almost at once the desire to smooth the expression away had come over her. Before she'd even been able to consciously react, her fingers were smoothing over his forehead, his lips, his eyes, brushing his tangled hair back from his face as she pressed herself more securely into his side.

At first he'd lurched at the contact, nearly jerking awake as his arm tightened from where it had been loosely draped around her. His flesh fingers had dug painfully into her hip, his grip hard enough that there'd been a deep and distinct pattern of bruising the next morning because of it. His metal arm had tensed, the mechanisms squealing as it went rigid. But as she had nestled herself into the crook of his shoulder, forehead pressed against his neck and fingers still tracing his tormented features, he'd calmed. After a long while, a ragged breath had shuddered through him as his body began to relax again, his grip on her hip easing as he nuzzled her curls, falling deeper into a far more peaceful sleep. It was a long while after that before Iris had been able to drift off again herself.

It hadn't been the last time either. Whenever his nightmares woke her it was often only her fingers brushing back his hair and the feel of her beside him that seemed to calm him.

It ached to think that he had to endure his nightmares alone again.

She dreamed about that too.

It was beginning to feel like she hadn't had a proper night's sleep since he left.

And it certainly wasn't happening now. Even though it was the middle of the night Iris was wide awake. Usually her nighttime thoughts were dominated by thoughts of him; her time with him, wondering what he was doing, why he left, what she could have done to stop him…why she was even still letting herself think about him…why she couldn't bring herself to hate him… Tonight, while admittedly still about him, her thoughts were on a completely different track.

The instant the breaking news headline had flashed across the TV screen at the restaurant, somehow Iris had known it was different. Her heart always thudded a little faster in dread every time the bold, yelling letters interrupted the regular news cycle, especially after the story broke around four months ago that the Winter Soldier had a real name and a face to go with the ominous alias: James Buchanan Barnes.

But bad news had become a reality of the world they lived in. That had been the case just a few weeks ago when news of a deadly explosion in Lagos, Nigeria linked to the actions of the Avengers dominated the TV screen. Before that the most notable one was the disaster in Sokovia. But there were still dozens more. But this time Iris couldn't help but feel that it was different. Her gut clenched at how right she was.

"Breaking news from Vienna, Austria" the anchor declared soberly as soon as he was on-air, "where a devastating bombing was carried out in front of the Vienna International Centre. As we reported earlier today, the International Centre was chosen by the United Nations as the site of the summit held for the ceremony and final signing of the divisive Sokovia Accords, an act which has been both highly praised and strongly opposed." The ensuing story and the subsequent footage was shocking enough that most of the restaurant had ground to a standstill, each face troubled and transfixed by the story, especially given the draw anything connected to the Avengers tended to have. But soon enough, everyone seemed to lose interest; stories like this one were becoming rather commonplace, and it had happened a long way from a small restaurant in one of the poorer parts of DC.

And as the newscaster elaborated on the shocking headline, Iris had lost interest just like everyone else. She'd had work to do and customers to attend. At least until the newscaster had switched tracks, moving on from cataloguing the breadth of the devastation and the ensuing emergency response efforts to what officials in charge of the investigation had to say on who was behind the attack.

"Officials have released video of a suspect who they have identified as James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, the infamous HYDRA agent linked to numerous acts of Terrorism and political assassinations."

The plates she'd been clearing away shattered when they hit the floor.

She'd barely noticed the cries of surprise at the crash or the milling voices as her coworkers and even a few customers asked what was wrong. She couldn't remember what she'd said in response, if she'd answered any of them at all. Vaguely she remembered helping to clean up the scattered shards of ceramic. After that her mind had been a muddle of disbelief, fear and shock with barely a coherent thought to string together. At least until her phone hummed in her pocket several hours later, one succinct little message emblazoned on the screen when she pulled it out.

_We found him –S_

It was then she had left. She hadn't even finished her shift. Looking back, now that her mind had recovered from its shock, she wasn't sure she'd clocked out or even told anyone she was leaving. She'd just grabbed her things and left. She just went back to her new apartment—nearly getting herself lost in her daze as her feet automatically tried to take her back to her aunt's skinny townhouse—and sunk onto the couch as the TV flickered to life, her phone clenched so tightly in her white-knuckled hands it had creaked in protest. She hadn't believed he could have done it. She determinedly hadn't let herself.

Unless…

Fear had tremored through her at the thought that perhaps _they_ had found him.

Even now she still couldn't wrap her head around any other explanation. James would not have done it of his own volition. He already struggled under the weight of a lifetime of monstrous sins that he's had no choice but to commit. He'd never willingly perpetrate another. She knew it in her gut and in her heart. _They_ had to have found him and used him again, forced him to do it. Fury bubbled up inside her at the idea and she had to clench her teeth together to keep in a scream of helpless frustration.

She fidgeted again in her seat to let out the anxious tension in her muscles, drawing an irritated glance from the older woman beside her trying to sleep. Iris bit back a scowl as she tried—again—to get comfortable in the stiff seat, silently cursing the flight attendant's instance that she keep her seatbelt securely fastened.

She had waited for hours for any sort of update from Sam, sometimes falling into a fitful sleep, barely even registering the shadows that grew as evening fell or the dim, growing light as morning came. Her mind was far too distracted and worked up, struggling to process what she was feeling and trying to wrap her head around any and every scrap of information the tv and her phone had provided…

…and dreading what was potentially happening thousands of miles away.

But when her update had come, it hadn't been from Sam. She'd very nearly dozed off again where she'd curled in on herself in the centre of the couch, her head full of grim imaginings of men in black combat gear swarming James, of bullets and screaming and blood. Her fingers were so tangled in her necklace that she nearly yanked it off her neck when her attention had snapped to the TV, still broadcasting quietly in the background. Her heart jumping to her throat, she had cranked the volume. Almost before the top story had finished playing she was digging for the passport she'd gotten for just such an occasion.

"We have a confirmed report that the former HYDRA agent James Buchanan Barnes, also known as the Winter Soldier, has been apprehended in Bucharest after an intent and dangerous pursuit by German Special Forces and Avenger Colonel James Rhodes. Among those also apprehended in this daring raid were former Avengers Captain Steve Rogers and Sam Wilson. They are to be taken to the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre in Berlin, Germany; Barnes for further questioning into his involvement in the Vienna Bombing; Rogers, Wilson and an additional unidentified individual for contravening the terms of the Sokovia Accords. No word yet on extradition plans or possible criminal charges."

Within moments she was out the door.

Within hours she was on her way to Berlin.

She was going to see James again.

She didn't know how, but she was going to.

She had to.


	18. Chapter 18

Bucky was rather uncomfortable, but really, he was resigned to that. He'd been through infinitely worse and suspected worse might still be in his future. He could live with discomfort. The restraints clamped around his forearms were almost comical they were so bulky, while the equally ridiculous harness-like restraints over his shoulders and across his chest held his torso a little too straight for comfort.

He knew, over the top as the restraints appeared, that they likely made the people outside the portable containment cell feel safer, more secure. He could almost have laughed at their naivety. But he didn't have the will. Part of him insisted that this was where he deserved to be. Another part admitted that, locked up like this, was the safest place for him to be.

As soon as that vendor in Bucharest had run at the sight of him he'd known it was time to go again. Then Steve had been in the tiny apartment safehouse he'd been staying in and he'd thought he was done.

But then Steve had tried to _help_ him. At the time he'd barely thought further on it, having fallen back on years, decades really, of combat training and survival instinct with the sole desire to get away. He'd just wanted to run.

Now, sitting locked up in a glorified reinforced glass and metal box, he had lots of time to think. The pieces of his mind had, for the most part, slipped back into place, though there were still times when his mind seemed fluid, things not quite where they should be, leaving him confused and disoriented.

But he remembered what Steve had meant to him. And he remembered with a cruel, frigid ache in his gut what he had nearly done to Steve…what he _had_ done to Steve. It was that moment the memory of actually shooting his best friend surged to the forefront of his mind, followed closely by the vivid memory of those last few seconds before the superstructure of the Helicarrier had given way, sending Steve plummeting into the river. His stomach roiled violently. There were few memories that made him hate himself more…he did his best not to think about the most recent addition to that already impossibly long list…

He also knew why his oldest friend had done what he did in Bucharest, likely sacrificing his own freedom in an attempt to do it. And he knew that, knowing the outcome, Steve would do the same again.

Only Bucky didn't deserve it.

He leaned his head back against the headrest, swallowing a resigned groan. The steel and polymer was cool and hard against the back of his head but it didn't bother him. Not really.

He was too tired. He was tired of fighting. He was tired of running. He was tired of jumping from safehouse to safehouse across Europe. He was tired of hiding. He was tired of waking up everyday and knowing that he was likely to have to do one or the other. He was tired of hunting down those who threatened everything he cared for most, no matter that his drive to do so hadn't dimmed. He was tired of searching for the missing pieces of his past. He was tired of the faces and the voices and the images running through his head, never letting him rest. He hated what he remembered; what having those memories meant; what they meant he was. But he was resigned to bear it.

What other choice did he have?

A flicker of bitterness that they'd taken him alive surfaced at that thought.

Outside the cell a man was talking to him, or trying to at least. Bucky wasn't the least bit interested. His life—or what meager facsimile of a life he'd had these last few months—was all but over. What point was there? They were going to pin the bombing on him. It was ironic, when considering all that he'd done, all the blood dripping from his hands, that it was because something he didn't do that had resulted in him spending the foreseeable future in a glass cage.

Not likely to see the sun again, the sky. The stars. Just thinking on it brought forward memories too painful to dwell on. Memories of rooftop dinners and dark curls that tickled his neck. Of sunflower pendants. Of bright, empathetic hazel eyes with flecks of grey and gold in them. He could feel the tiny, flickering hope he'd somehow managed to keep alive for the past year faltering with each passing moment. He stared at the roof of the cell, where the glass joined with metal, reinforced and fortified to keep him in, struggling to make his mind go blank.

It didn't work. His head fell slowly toward his chest as the ache of longing only seemed to intensify. So, grudgingly, he turned his attention to the man—some sort of psychiatrist, he imagined—figuring on at least a temporary distraction to keep from dwelling on things he was never going to have.

Of what he'd lost by running.

Of who he was never going to see again.

"I'm not here to judge you. I just want to ask you a few questions." A bitter laugh caught in his chest, not making it far enough to produce a sound. Everyone judged. He'd done monstrous things, so it was inevitable. That he was here, now, proved that. No one had even considered that he might not have done it. No one, save Steve. And there would likely never be just 'a few' questions.

Broken as his mind was, he wasn't so naïve as that.

"Do you know where you are, James?" The calm, measured voice was already becoming grating and irritation caused Bucky's jaw to clench as he fought back the urge to snap back. The doctor paused, as though waiting for Bucky to respond. Bucky wasn't about to indulge him, not if he could help it, especially not if he kept calling him that. Bucky could see the doctor watching him closely in his peripheral vision. "I can't help you if you don't talk to me, James." It took a firm act of willpower to keep from grinding his teeth, his frustration finally getting the better of him.

"My name is Bucky," he ground out, jaw clenching shut as soon as the words were out of his mouth, preventing anything else from slipping out. _Only one person is allowed to call me James and you aren't her_ , he wanted to snap at the collected man before him. But Bucky wasn't about to put Iris at risk like that. Likely they'd assume he was referring to his mother or sister or other long lost person from his past, but he wasn't about to take that chance.

The doctor just continued to stare before glancing down to his notes, jotting something down. He looked—pleased? Bucky finally gave in and looked directly at the doctor, not bothering to temper his glare. He wasn't happy to be here. He wasn't happy being interrogated like this, because it was an interrogation. They could call it whatever they wanted—a psychological evaluation, whatever—but it was still an interrogation. Why did they care? They had already condemned him whether they admitted to it or not.

The doctor stared mildly back. "Tell me, Bucky," if anything, he suddenly found that more irritating than being called James, "You've seen a great deal, haven't you." Bucky forced in a deep breath, weighing whether or not to respond.

"I don't wanna talk about it," he finally answered, his voice low and hard. The mild look didn't change, but Bucky had the sense that the doctor was very much unperturbed by the response, even pleased. What sort of interrogation was this?

"You feel that if you open your mouth the horrors might never stop?" Bucky's jaw clenched again, his teeth beginning to ache with the pressure as the words dug painfully into him. He leaned his head back against the headrest, though he kept his eyes fixed surreptitiously on the Doctor. There was more truth there than the doctor knew.

"Don't worry," the doctor said, glancing over to his tablet. And then he was looking up to Bucky again, a harsh glimmer in his eyes. Bucky's gut churned. Something was wrong here. "We only have to talk about one." A wary dread blossomed in the back of Bucky's mind as the doctor's mild glance grew sharp.

And then the power died, the low, latent hum of the lights and ventilation systems falling eerily silent to leave Bucky and the doctor alone in the suddenly crushing darkness.

Of their own accord his eyes darted around, his senses suddenly on high alert. It had to be a trick, some method of interrogation. But the roiling dread in his belly, borne of instincts honed over decades where they'd been his best defense and the only part of himself he could trust, said otherwise. He tried to ignore it. Overhead the dim, flashing red emergency lighting kicked in, bathing the chamber and his glass cell in a bloody glow.

Instinct taking over yet again, he felt his body go loose within the restraints, ready for the other shoe to drop. This had to be part of the plan, a way to unsettle him.

It was working.

He looked back to the doctor, unable to stop the frown that formed on his face.

"What the hell is this?" In the low light the doctor's eyes flashed. The coil of dread wound tighter.

"Why don't we discuss your home." Bucky's frown deepened at the sharp edge to the still conversational tone, fighting back his confusion at the apparent shift in topic. The doctor's gaze bored into him. Agitation rippled through him, mingling with the dread. He knew his face had gone blank as his anxiety ratcheted higher; a remnant from his days as the Winter Soldier that he was suddenly almost grateful for.

"Not Romania. Certainly not Brooklyn, no." the doctor shifted as he spoke, casually reaching into his satchel. Bucky went cold, his whole body tensing as panic began to flood through him, freezing even his breath in his chest.

One thought and one thought alone exploded through his mind to the fierce exclusion of all else; the thing he feared most.

They'd found her. They'd found Iris.

And they were going to use her against him.

But then he saw the book the doctor slipped out of the satchel, holding it purposefully so Bucky could see it with agonizing clarity despite the dim light: red leather-bound with a single, black star imprinted on the cover. "I mean your real home." Horror seared through him.

No. This was far worse.

As the doctor removed his glasses and stood, shock settled around Bucky, making it hard to breath as he struggled to wrap his head around what was about to happen. For as the doctor pulled out a thin flashlight and flipped open the book, there was little doubt about what he planned to do.

_“Longing”_

The first Russian word fell from the doctor's lips, hanging and grating through the air. Despair and disbelief overtook shock. "No," he breathed, his head falling back against the headrest with a dull thud, the cloying, sour taste of bile clogging his throat.

_“Rusted”_

"Stop." His voice wavered and broke, the fact that he was begging not lost on him. Anything to make it stop. The words hooked into his brain, lodging with agonizing tenacity. He squeezed his eyes shut, grimacing as flashes of fractured memory he'd tried so hard to bury were resurrected by the doctor's merciless voice.

_“Seventeen”_

His cybernetic fist clenched, the limb buzzing angrily as phantom pain speared through his temples, blinding him. "Stop!" There was no waver now, only a harsh, frantic demand. Cold, desperate rage surged up to shatter the terror freezing the very blood in his veins, his chest suddenly heaving as he sucked in breath after snarling breath as his body mindlessly strained against the restraints. His pulse roared in his ears, but it wasn't loud enough to drown out the words.

_“Daybreak”_

A desperate scream of rage tore out of his chest, the tendons and muscles in his neck straining as his entire frame wrenched taut, thrashing against the restraints. His bionic arm ripped through its thick cuff with a shearing screech like it was no more than paper. In less than a heartbeat his metal fingers had torn through the harness and freed his other arm, the restraints proving a pitiful attempt to hold him back in his manic frenzy to escape as he launched free of the chair.

_“Furnace”_

With a muted thud his metal fist drove against the reinforced glass like a battering ram. Again. And again. Each breath burned through his lungs like chlorine gas, searing his insides as each hit vibrated through his body.

_“Nine”_

He needed to get out. He needed to stop those words. The frame of the door groaned under the onslaught but the glass didn't want to crack under the relentless hammering of his metal fist, a growing patch of white dust the only mark he left.

_“Benign”_

He could feel the seal on the door beginning to give way while the small patch of glass began to grow opaque as microfractures were etched into it with every strike. Just a few more hits…

_“Homecoming”_

The fractures were growing but it was too slow. It wasn't enough.

As the words hooked deeper into his brain he could feel himself losing grip over his own mind no matter how hard he clawed and battled to keep hold. His voice grew hoarse as he bellowed furiously, his arm driving into the glass again and again. Even as he fought to break free of his prison—physical and internal—a bitter, hopeless part of his mind howled that it was useless, that he was already ensnared.

_“Freight Car”_

It wasn't the glass, but the door itself that finally gave way. Bucky fell forward with the momentum of his last hammering blow, nimbly catching himself in a crouch before he could crash into the floor.

But as the glass door burst free from its frame with a grinding scream, the finality of the last word fell like a weight over him, dragging Bucky down below to drown in the frigid, fathomless sea that was HYDRA's programming.

The room was silent as the doctor came to a stop before Bucky. Slowly, Bucky stood, his eyes unseeing…blank…

Dead.

The doctor looked anxiously on, his eyes glittering with anticipation.

" _Soldier?"_

One last, coherent thought whispered through his mind before Bucky was wholly consumed by the Winter Soldier.

_I'm sorry, Iris._

" _Ready to Comply._ "


	19. Chapter 19

As soon as she was standing inside the lobby of the Joint Counter Terrorist Centre one very large lapse in logic hit Iris.

She couldn't just walk in and ask to see the Winter Soldier.

There was no way in hell they'd let someone like her—a virtual nobody waltzing in off the street—see him. Her stomach felt like it dropped to her shoes at the realization.

Nearly feeling faint under the weight of her own foolishness, she tried with as much composure as she could manage to find somewhere to regroup. Off to the side, just past the front desk, there was a modest seating area with pale grey chairs and couches arrayed around a glass and stone terrarium bursting with slender, leafy plants. But nearly as soon as she sat, bitter tears were threatening. For the first time since leaving DC, it occurred to her that she might not be able to find a way to reunite with James…that she might never see him again. With everything he'd done, whether he'd been forced to it or not? They were never going to let him go. The realization of the very real possibility that the man she loved was about to be lost to her forever hit her like a kick in the chest, fear and despair rising up in her throat like bile, choking her. She fought to push the feelings aside. She needed to figure out what to do next.

She had to do something.

Already she had gotten a few odd looks from just standing frozen near the entrance when she'd realized the flaw in her plan. She couldn't afford more. She needed to look like she belonged, like she had a real—or rather, more widely acceptable—reason to be here.

Taking a deep steadying breath she forced herself to relax, and ignore the panicked little voice in the back of her mind that said she never should have left DC and the anguished voice that was sure she was never going to see him again. Thus far, her first real venture beyond the boundaries of DC was not going quite so well as she hoped… This might have been a bad idea. It certainly wasn't very well thought out on her part. She was so far out of her comfort zone she had long since left behind any scale to even chart the feeling on.

But she was here now, and there was no going back. Not until she found him. Not until she knew he was okay.

Pulling out her phone to look at the blank screen, she hoped she'd look like just another agent or employee or whatever waiting for a friend or colleague to appear. As she did, she let herself glance at the TVs situated discreetly high on the walls. That wasn't the best of ideas either; each one seemed to be playing news stories about the Vienna Bombing, James' capture or footage of the now infamous Freeway Fight against Captain America years ago in DC. Iris felt sick all over again.

But then something else in the news cycle caught her attention, reminding her of one glaring and potentially crucial fact that she'd nearly forgotten: James hadn't been taken into custody alone. He'd been in the company of Steve Rogers…

…and Sam Wilson.

Sam.

And apparently neither one of the two Avengers had been formally arrested.

And they had been brought to Berlin too.

Iris' heart began thrumming excitedly at the implications and possibilities now laid out before her. It dimmed a little when several long minutes passed without any response to her messages followed by several more that seemed to drag on forever. But she wasn't about to give up on Sam just yet.

As calmly as she could, Iris stood and retraced her steps back toward the front desk.

"Excuse me?" It took the receptionist a moment to look up, a congenial look appearing on her face as she noticed Iris standing there before greeting her politely back in English. Iris barely even registered what she said, eager for the woman to stop speaking so she could make her case.

"I'm looking to speak with Sam Wilson. I know he arrived here earlier today." She tried to insert as much confidence and authority into her voice as she could, hoping that the receptionist would buy it as purpose and not dismiss her out of hand. She fought to keep her hands still and loosely clasped where she let them rest on the high counter. A trace of a frown appeared on the woman's face, her smile dimming as she registered Iris' request. Iris' pulse began thundering and her pleasant smile threatened to fade. She could see in the receptionist's face that a refusal dressed up in placating politeness was forthcoming.

Heart leaping to her throat she didn't even let the woman speak, all caution flying to the wind. "Please. I need to see him, to talk to him. This is important. I've come all the way from the States," she struggled to keep her voice down, knowing that if she caused a scene they'd throw her out without a second thought, "I haven't slept, I haven't eaten, I haven't even found a place to stay yet. Please…" She was begging, she knew she was, but she couldn't quite bring herself to care. Especially not if it ended up working.

The receptionist hesitated, her lips pursing as she considered Iris with cautious eyes. But before Iris could renew her entreaty, she sighed, glancing around to her coworkers.

"I will see what I can do. Feel free to wait in the Kantine, the cafeteria, one level down. Someone should come and find you shortly." Iris couldn't help the way her eyes slid shut in relief. When she opened them again to thank the receptionist she found the woman unsuccessfully fighting back an amused grin. "And maybe get some coffee and lunch while you're there." A surprised laugh bubbled out of Iris as the woman handed her a visitor's badge and indicated toward a visitor's log a short way down the counter.

Not far away from the front desk, a plaque on the wall pointed the way toward the Kantine. Holding her head up and her eyes forward, Iris made her way down a level to the cafeteria, trying her best to look like she knew where she was going. It's one thing she was grateful that the restaurant industry had taught her: looking like you belonged had everything to do with acting like you belonged.

As though agreeing with the receptionist's friendly suggestion, her stomach grumbled hungrily as Iris' eyes glanced over the cafeteria proper. Even knowing that there was little she could do but wait just now, it still took Iris several minutes of waffling before she ducked into the lunch bar, coming out several minutes later with a rather tasty looking cheese sandwich and salad—not bad for a government agency, she couldn't help but think with a snicker—as well as the receptionist-prescribed cup of coffee.

It was still an hour or so until the lunch hour so it thankfully wasn't too difficult to find an empty seat in the cheerfully lit, if rather Spartan, seating area, and Iris settled herself at one of the collection of dark-wood tables.

Eating, however, didn't take long at all once she realized just how hungry she suddenly was. Iris was soon sitting at her lonely table quite unoccupied, involuntarily growing more anxious as every minute passed, thoughts on her diminishing chances of ever seeing James again threatening to claw their way back to the forefront of her mind. Before long it had been nearly half an hour since she'd sat down and Iris was growing more and more tempted to pop back up to the front desk to make sure they hadn't forgotten about her or weren't just stringing her along. With a frustrated sigh she fiddled with the strap of her bag, once again slung around across her torso thanks to her impatience, grudgingly resolving to wait a few more minutes.

Just then the distinct, abrupt dying drone that came with any and every power outage pulsed through the building. Lights flicked off as computer screens, registers and televisions throughout the Kantine went dark. All at once the ambient noise from people milling about the cafeteria was dialed up as exclamations of surprise and calls to find out what was going on and to remain calm filled the air.

"What just happened," a man at the table near Iris' blurted out, glancing around before his eyes met Iris', his voice joining the dozens of others asking the same thing. Swallowing thickly as trepidation trickled through her, Iris stood, looking around the cafeteria with bewilderment of her own.

But before she could venture any sort of response of her own, she was abruptly cut off as the alarms began sounding. Her neighbour's face went white. Well that wasn't reassuring…

Within moments people were flooding toward the stairs and the exits as those in security uniforms began directing people toward the staircases and on out of the building.

Iris froze, eyes wide in shock. At least until she caught at the threads and isolated words of panicked voices as they rushed past: 'winter,' 'soldier' and 'escaped.' Emotion flooded through her as her mind strung those words together, but just which emotions she most certainly couldn't tell. Fear, of course. Anxiety, yes. Concern? Confusion? Uncertainty? Those as well.

Elation? Part of her felt a tiny twinge of shame at that one, but she couldn't deny it.

Forcibly getting a grip on herself, her eyes darted around the room, anxious for a place to take cover. She wasn't about to let security push her from the building if she could help it. She knew it was foolish and stupid and dangerous, but in those split-seconds neither could she convince herself to do otherwise. If there was even the slightest chance…

With a lurch she was up from her chair and darting forward to press herself against one of the thick columns supporting one of the staircases, her back jammed against the frame of the stairs and her shoulder wedged against the cool stone as she crouched as far out of sight as she could manage. Luckily, the security teams sweeping the area for stragglers rushed right past her, drawing a huff of relief from Iris.

At least until she realized why they were rushing past her.

James.


	20. Chapter 20

It was James.

She was definitely feeling that elation now...but just as quickly as it bloomed it withered and faded.

All breath was crushed from her chest as, in one deft move, he dodged the first swing of one of the security officers before he was a blur of motion, limbs darting out with precise, focused moves that dropped one agent after another with solid, meaty thuds. A baton clanged as it met his metal hand and in a blink James had twisted it away from its wielder's crumpling form to slam into the guard's companion.

She had never seen him in action before. Not in person, at least. Unable to look away, she slowly rose from her crouch by the stairs, unconsciously shifting so she could see properly. Twice, people trying to flee the cafeteria knocked into her, pushing her closer to the separated lunch bar until she was nearly leaning against the glass enclosing it. Sure, she'd seen video footage and could practically visualize the Freeway Fight move for move considering how many times she'd seen it.

But this was something else.

This was violent and visceral and very, very real. It was awful. But part of her couldn't deny that it was captivating to watch. He was graceful and powerful as he moved fluidly across the floor, each strike measured and devastating. None of the agents could land a proper hit but the sounds of fists—both metal and skin and bone—connecting with flesh and grunts of pain echoed through the space.

In seconds two more agents—one a blonde woman who was obviously more than just simple security, judging by the fight she put up—were flung from his path, toppling into the strewn chairs or crashing across tables.

And then there was a gun in his hand. Iris' hands flew to clamp over her mouth in terror as James swung the weapon around, coolly aiming at the blonde agent he'd just sent flying over the tabletops to land with a harsh smack on the stone-clad wall.

But then a flash of light reverberated through the air, crashing into James, causing him to stagger back as his face twisted in pain. Flinching herself as the remnants of the shockwave made it to where she stood, Iris' eyes flew toward the source of the pulse. Had she not been frozen in fear she might have been star-struck.

Another pulse flashed through the cafeteria right as James turned to face Tony Stark, his face cold and focused as the billionaire was locked in his sights. The second pulse had James dropping into a crouch, absorbing most of the force from the device on Stark's hand across his back before twisting around and surging up to meet the normally armoured hero.

Only, Stark wasn't armoured this time.

Iris' heart was in her throat as the two men grappled for the gun, hands and fists lashing out against one another before a muted bang echoed through room. Flinching instinctively away as the gun discharged, Iris' arms flew up to shield her head, a shriek jolting free from her as she ducked behind one of the tables. She slammed into the glass wall of the cafeteria as she did so, but she barely noticed the pain flaring through her shoulder. The terror twisting in her gut wound tighter, pressing up against her lungs as her eyes snapped up again, more afraid of losing sight of James than of seeing what happened.

Somehow Stark had blocked the barrel of the gun with his glove-like device as he grabbed hold of it. Iris felt just as shocked as Stark looked as the billionaire glanced back up at James before his face hardened with concentration again. With a jerking twist the two men both yanked on the weapon. Iris only caught the barest glimpse of the disassembled gun grip in James' hand and the pleased smirk on Stark's face before Stark backhanded James hard, whipping his head around nearly in Iris' direction.

With cold snarl James flung his elbow around to connect with Stark's jaw, sending his glasses flying. As Stark's hands flew up in a delayed instinct to protect his face, James' arm was already coiled and lashing forward. Driving into Stark's torso, the force of the hit launched the billionaire back to crash into the tables behind him, crumpling out of sight. A breath of mingled relief and worry gasped up through Iris' chest.

But it didn't make it out into the open air before two women had charged out of nowhere to take their turn against James. Iris didn't even have time to react as another blonde woman suddenly had James blocking powerful kicks before ducking past him impossibly quickly as he tried to swing at her to latch onto his back, her arm snaking around his neck to wrench his head up, nearly unbalancing him.

As she did, her redheaded companion rushed into the fray, driving her knee with staggering force into James' chest. With a pained, wheezing grunt James staggered back as the redhead drove a resounding blow into his upper thigh, dangerously close to his groin. It was a hard enough blow that he nearly collapsed to his knees, his face momentarily going slack with pain. Before he could recover, the blonde was using his distraction to tighten her grip, one leg hooking around his metal arm to pin it against his side. Thinking to take similar advantage, the redhead darted forward again, but despite the blonde's attempts to restrain him, James lashed out with a kick of his own, catching the redhead in the chest. She barely managed to absorb the blow, falling back heavily into one of the dark bistro tables, snapping the wooden legs with the force if her impact.

It was enough to dislodge the blonde too. With a swinging motion that Iris could barely follow, she launched herself higher onto his back, her knee coming around his body to connect with his jaw as she fought to latch her arms around his neck again.

With a furious snarl, James twisted and reached back, his metal hand grappling for a hold on the blonde woman. But she was quick, all but letting herself drop back to the ground to miss his grasping fingers only to spring back up on his other side to finally get her arm back around his neck as he reacted a split-second too slow to her darting shift in the opposite direction.

Her face grim with determined concentration, the blonde swung another powerful kick around his body, her knee just barely managing to hook around his metal arm in an attempt to restrain it again.

But he recovered quickly, shifting in such a way that as she tried to pull his arm back with her leg, he was able to use her own strength against her, hauling her almost bodily from his back to snap her grip around his neck. With a whirling heave he had the blonde woman launching head over heels to smash through the plate glass divider of the Kantine not far from Iris. This time a strangled scream did rip free from Iris as the glass shattered with a deafening crash that echoed loudly through the cafeteria, the woman hitting the floor with a heavy thud, shards of glass falling like rain around her.

But then, almost faster than Iris could follow, the redhead was using James' moment of distraction as he looked angrily over at the blonde to spring onto his back. Iris' mouth dropped open in astonishment as the woman—could that be Black Widow?—used her momentum to propel herself impossibly around his body before clamping her legs around his neck and hoisting herself up atop his shoulders. As James staggered at first under the swinging, added weight suddenly balanced on his shoulders, the redhead took full advantage, pounding about his head with her arms and elbows even as her thighs clenched hard enough around his neck Iris was sure it had to be hard to breathe.

Until James managed to regain his equilibrium a split-second later.

And then they were coming toward Iris.

She jumped to her feet, staggering instinctively back and away from the battling pair as James unbalanced the woman from her precarious perch on his shoulders to slam her into a table nearly within arm's reach.

And then his cybernetic hand clamped around the redhead's neck.

It was the first real good look Iris had gotten of his face.

Her stomach roiled, her throat clogging with bile and for a moment Iris thought she was going to be sick. It was his face, but James wasn't behind it.

She knew what he meant now when he had said he was a mindless weapon under their control; it was like he wasn't even there.

Emotionless. Blank. Empty.

But then the memory of him slumped and wretched on her couch flashed before her eyes. Before she could convince herself not to, Iris darted forward. The other woman's face was beginning to turn red, her hands white-knuckled on the unforgiving metal grip crushing against her throat. Iris' hands latched onto the red fabric of his shirt, her fingers slipping over the smooth metal hidden beneath.

"Stop! James!" His name gasped out of her mouth in a panic as she tugged pointlessly at him. He was far too strong for her to shift him at all, much less break his hold. He didn't even seem to know she was there, single-mindedly focused on the woman he was trying to choke to death instead. Iris turned, her own fingers closing over his, knowing any attempt against his iron-grip was futile; but she had to try. Beneath him the woman's gasps were growing weaker, though her green eyes darted with wide-eyed bewilderment to Iris almost too quickly to notice.

Iris barely spared her a glance, looking back up to James. She abandoned her scrabbling at his grip, instead darting her hand up to brush against his face, trying to turn him to look at her as she pleaded, her voice a hoarse whisper. "James, please! I know you're in there. Don't do this."

Even though his emotionless, steel-hued gaze didn't snap from the redhead's, his head tilted; the same cant that had told her on the first day she met him that he had heard her. She couldn't breathe, afraid to hope that it was more than a fluke.

And then his real hand flashed up from where it had been braced on the table to grab at her, nearly startling a scream out of her as his grip sudden spanned the base of her throat, his palm splayed against her sternum.

He shoved.

Unable to let loose more than a startled exhale Iris was pitched backward hard enough that a chorus of cracks spidered out from where she crashed into the glass wall of the lunch bar. Pain lanced through her body as she crumpled to the floor, winded and dazed by the impact.

Dazed enough that in the moment it took her to clear her head James was almost immediately fending of a yet another attack. As Iris managed with a heavy groan to pull herself halfway to a sitting position, another man she hadn't seen before was battering James back with a flurry of kicks and fists. At least until James switched from the defensive to offensive. With a final whirring blow of his metal arm the young man was thrown back off his feet, barely able to catch himself in a low, predatory crouch. But Iris wasn't paying attention to him. She was almost immediately searching for James again, her heart pounding anxiously as her eyes darted about to catch a glimpse of him.

As soon as he had knocked the black man off his feet, James was moving on. Iris struggled to find her footing, focus locked on him.

"James!" He didn't even look at her, turning and striding up the stairs just past her two at a time. Still fighting to catch her breath after her collision with the glass wall, Iris' legs collapsed from under her as a gasping sob tried to tear up her throat.

She hadn't helped him at all.

She'd failed.

And he was gone again.


	21. Chapter 21

The alarms still rang through the air around her and distantly Iris could hear the sounds of movement from those James had left battered and bruised in his wake. On the table behind her the redhead—she had to be Black Widow; Natasha Romanoff—was coughing and gasping as she regained her breath. Iris barely noticed.

She had failed. She hadn't been able to help James at all. She didn't know where she'd gotten the idea in her head that she'd be able to get through to him, but it had been definitively proven wrong. Iris choked back bitter tears, clenching her eyelids shut to hold back the ones that had already begun to sting the corners of her eyes. She hadn't believed him when he said that, when under _their_ control, he'd do anything they ordered…even hurt her. She'd refused to believe him. Well, without even looking at her, he'd just thrown her into a glass wall.

She couldn't help but believe him now.

He hadn't even recognized her.

Her jaw muscles tightened to hold back the gasping sob that tried to lurch out of her chest, her teeth aching from the effort. A spasm of pain crawled beneath her shoulder blade, the ache from slamming into the glass wall spreading across her back as her chest constricted with the effort of holding in her sudden welling of despair and humiliation.

It was the approaching sound of feet slowing from an anxious jog and the murmur of a familiar voice that finally managed to pull Iris out of her spiraling misery. Forcing back her self-pity, Iris pulled herself up so she was nearly sitting again, unable to help the pained groan at the way her abused body complained at the movement. Forcing in a deep breath to try and shunt the aches aside and ignore the stiffness trying to set in across her legs and back, she somehow managed to prop herself up on her feet, gingerly leaning against a convenient chair.

"Iris?" Her head snapped up at the sound of her name. She immediately regretted the abrupt motion, though, as her surroundings seemed to tip and wobble for a moment while the ache on the back of her head throbbed. A steadying hand closed around her arm as she reached back to probe around the back of her head. Though painfully tender, when she drew her fingers back they were thankfully clean. She was going to have a nasty goose-egg in the near future, though. In a heartbeat the wobbling sensation was gone, and she was able to focus on the concerned and bewildered face looking down at her.

"Iris, what are you doing here," Sam demanded, an edge to his voice that Iris belatedly realized was worry heaped upon frustration heaped upon stress. She blinked up at him, not knowing at first what to say that wouldn't sound completely foolish. Shame at how reckless she'd been bubbled up in her again at the incredulous way he was staring at her, but she resolutely kept her mouth shut. Her whole body tensed under the weight of his scrutiny, leaning away from him as though it would ease the pressure. The movement, minute as it was, still managed to draw a wince from her as the ache seeping through her body flared. Her shoulder was the worst, the focal point as it were, and she knew she was going to have a heck of a bruise there. Sam frowned, concern shifting to outweigh his bewilderment. "Are you alright?" Iris managed a stilted nod, but Sam wasn't entirely convinced, repeating himself more firmly, "Iris, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," she muttered bitterly, causing his eyebrows to rise with skepticism. Another groan sounded behind them, drawing both Iris and Sam's gazes to the redhead pulling herself up to a sitting position on the adjacent table. Shooting Iris a warning glance that all but shouted 'don't move,' Sam moved over to steady Black Widow as she shuffled off the table, hand massaging at her throat. Iris flinched involuntarily upon glimpsing the red, hand-shaped marks beginning to appear on the fair skin of the other woman's throat. Off behind them, Iris caught a glimpse of one of the J.C.T.F. agents—the blonde agent James had nearly shot—steadying a rather sore-looking Tony Stark before darting through the destroyed lunch bar's shattered divider to kneel beside the slowly recovering blonde woman who had fought James alongside Black Widow.

"How you doin,' Romanoff," Sam asked, hands held at the ready should the lone female Avenger still need the support. The redheaded spy nearly glared at him. Had Iris been in better frame of mind, she might nearly have snickered at the exasperated expression. Sam gave her a light pat on the shoulder when the redhead waved him off in annoyance, her delicate features pulling into a deep, perplexed frown.

And then those clever green eyes flicked to Iris before fixing on Sam. Iris couldn't help but tense at the expression in them.

"Who's she," the redhead demanded without preamble. Sam hesitated, shooting Iris a glance of his own, his gaze hardening.

"Not important right now," he answered, fixing Romanoff with a stern look, "Where's Barnes?" She raised a doubting eyebrow at him, ignoring his question as a tiny smirk appeared on her lips, as though she thought his attempt to deflect was adorable even as it was annoying. But she answered it anyway before steering the conversation right back to Iris' presence.

"Long gone. And it seems kind of important, Wilson," she retorted, her tone sharp. In a blink she had slipped around Sam and had taken a step toward Iris. Iris was too smart not to be intimidated by the move and immediately took a shaky step back, stumbling on the wreckage of a chair at her feet.

"Why did he protect you?" Black Widow's expression was fierce and penetrating as she stared at Iris, her challenging tone causing Iris to swallow thickly with apprehension. Iris was stunned, utterly baffled at the way the redheaded spy had turned on her.

But then her question registered like a slap across the face.

"I—what? I—I don't—what are you talking about?" Romanoff's frown deepened. She looked nearly bewildered herself at Iris' confusion.

"Barnes; he was protecting you. He shoved you out of the way just before T'Challa engaged him. Why would he do that?" Iris' mouth dropped open, her eyes going wide as she processed what the spy-turned-Avenger said. Hope flickered back to life within her.

If he protected her, it meant that, on some level, he'd known her.

He had recognized her.

But at that moment the building seemed to wake from the stunned standstill James' escape had thrown it into. Around them the rest of the agents that James had incapacitated were back on their feet and deeper in the building the faint sound of assembling men began to float through the cafeteria. Though Iris was still all but trapped by Romanoff's penetrating focus, Sam was not, his head swiveling around as the waking building spurred him into action.

"We're going, Romanoff," he muttered pointedly, fixing the spy with a determined look when she broke off her attention from Iris to glance at Sam. Though she didn't look happy about it, Romanoff said nothing at first, leaning away to rest against the edge of the table behind her as her green eyes fixed warily on Sam.

"Don't do anything stupid, Sam," she urged quietly. If Iris hadn't known better, she'd have thought the spy was pleading with him. Sam simply shot her an unreadable look before turning back to Iris. Edging past the redhead, his hand landed on Iris' shoulder, turning and pushing her in the direction of the stairs.

Still reeling from what Black Widow had said, Iris didn't fight him as Sam led her up the stairs, though the lobby and out the front doors into the milling and panicked crowds outside. It was only once they'd emerged into the sunshine that Iris came back to herself, hesitating in order to turn and look back to the imposing building. As though reading her mind, Sam sighed heavily, his eyes flickering with his anxiousness to keep moving.

"He's long gone, Iris." When she didn't answer he placed himself in her line of sight, edging into her personal space with the intention of getting her to unconsciously step away, trying to get her moving again. While it did work, it also had the effect of jolting Iris from her thoughts. She glanced up at Sam as she took a meandering step back. She noticed him fighting back a grimace at her reluctance to keep moving, his eyes darting about their surroundings warily.

"I was so close, Sam," she muttered bitterly. "I came all this way and he slipped away again." Sam huffed, the annoyance in the sound sparking Iris' irritation.

"I said I would contact you," he hissed, abandoning subtlety and finally just grabbing her arm and steering her away. Iris tugged back, trying to wrench her arm free even as she glared at Sam.

"Yeah? Well, I also heard you'd been arrested, so forgive me if I was a little skeptical that it would happen." He glared right back.

"We need to get off the street. Do you have a hotel room somewhere?" She clenched her jaw in annoyance at his commanding tone and deliberate change in topic.

"No, I don't and I'm not going to a hotel. And don't order me around. We need to find him," she snapped back. He huffed with frustration, his gaze lifting from her to survey the anxious crowd he'd pulled them into.

Then he tugged on her arm again, continuing on toward the street beyond the one before the J.C.T.C. Building; the area around the complex was cordoned off, but it didn't look like the police and security were preventing anyone from leaving. Most people just weren't. Iris balked, hands closing anxiously around the strap of her shoulder bag as she stubbornly dragged her feet.

"No! I need to see him. I need to know he's okay!" Sam shot her a look that was nearly scathing, though the flicker of pity sent a jolt of surprise through her.

"Of course he's not okay. They did something to his head again." Iris nearly snarled at his response.

"You think I don't know that? That I didn't figure that out? The James I know would never hurt me, yet he threw me into a plate-glass wall," she argued, gesturing back toward the building behind them and the cracked glass panel inside that supported her declaration, "I think it's fairly obvious what happened to him." The harsh expression on Sam's face eased, though only fractionally. Heaving a heavy sigh he began walking again, and this time Iris grudgingly followed, though she kept pulling against the hand he still had wrapped securely around her upper arm.

"Steve'll get through to him. But first I need to get you someplace safe," he said a few moments later as they got farther away from the J.C.T.C. Building and onto a street that wasn't shut down by police barricades. As he tried to hail a taxi on the busy street, grumbling under his breath at the chaotic traffic caused by the power outage and compounded by the events at the J.C.T.C. complex, something about the way he'd spoken niggled at Iris.

Then it hit her, her eyes widening with the realization. "You know where they're going." Sam glanced at her, his face serious as he paused in his attempts to hail some transportation.

"And I know where you're going: a hotel." She nearly snarled at him again.

"I can help and you know it, Sam. I can get through to him." Though not as unshakable as before, the belief that she could do it had reemerged the instant Agent Romanoff had woken that spark of hope in her. Sam shook his head as he turned back to the passing traffic.

"And so can Steve."

"Sam, please—"

He looked down at her again, his dark eyes nearly incredulous. "D'you know how mad he'd be at me if I dragged you anymore into this than you already are? Hell, if he cares about you as much as you seem to think he does, he's going to want to kill me for bringing you to Berlin in the first place!" She jerked back, affronted. He finally let go of her arm.

"I brought myself to Berlin, genius," she retorted scathingly.

"And I told you he was here."

"You only told me you found him. The TV told me he was in Berlin." Sam opened his mouth to reply, only nothing came out. She couldn't help the tiny smirk that crept across her face when he didn't have a rebuttal for that. After a moment he let out a sound halfway between a sigh and a groan, his hand lifting to scrape over the top of his head as he thought. He looked back to Iris, who was now standing with her arms folded stubbornly over her chest as she watched him back. Resignation flickered over his face, but before she could get too excited his face grew stern.

"Look, Iris. I get it. You want to help; you need to help him, even. Believe me, I do get it. But all of this," he gestured absently around, his dark gaze flicking back to the J.C.T.C. Building as he did, "is dangerous. Too dangerous for civilians. You'll get yourself killed; you could have been killed today, and Barnes could have easily been the one to do it. And I think you likely know better than anyone what that would do to him. You want to help him?" Iris just looked at him, wide-eyed, as her chest constricted with each achingly accurate word. He was right, and she knew it. She'd known she was throwing herself into danger the instant she didn't evacuate the building with everyone else. She knew she didn't have the fancy training or skills that he or Romanoff or James had that could keep her alive in their world. She was already in way over her head. She would be a liability.

And she knew how James would react when he realized he'd hurt her, even if it was apparent now that it had been out of a subconscious desire to protect her. She didn't even want to think what it would've done to him had anything worse happened to her.

It would destroy him.

She hated what she knew Sam was going to say next and she hated that he was right to say it. He sighed, his expression easing into sympathy as he realized she knew where he was going with this. Glancing up, he noticed a taxi approaching, and as he waved this one down, the driver took notice, pulling up to the curb. As the cream-coloured car eased to a halt, he turned back to her.

"The way to do that is to stay safe." Biting her tongue, Iris nodded mutely, ducking her head with mortification as her eyes began watering. Her hand lifted to her throat, fingers seeking out the comforting contours of her sunflower. Her tears finally spilled over when her fingertips met only her own skin.

Grimly satisfied with her response Sam opened the door, silently waiting for her to get in. Swallowing back her self-pity, Iris obeyed, her hands white-knuckled on the strap of her bag. But before she could step into the taxi Sam's hand landed on her shoulder. Dashing away the dampness that was clinging to her cheeks she looked up at him.

A small, encouraging grin had brightened his features as his fingers tightened with reassurance on her shoulder.

"It'll work out, Iris," he said quietly "We'll figure it out. And you'll see him again." It wasn't quite a promise. They both knew he didn't have that kind of power or foresight to do any such thing. But it was an assurance that he would do what he could. A small, watery smile was all Iris could manage.

With that, she ducked into the Taxi, Sam close behind her.

She hoped he was right.


	22. Chapter 22

Steve glanced between Bucky and Sam, his mind working through the problem at hand. But no matter how he approached it, there were no real alternatives.

"We're on our own," he murmured to Sam. But he paused when Sam looked back to him with a minute shrug, an equally thoughtful light in his eyes.

"Maybe not," he answered just as quietly, before glancing up at Steve, "I know a guy." And if that didn't spark another idea… Steve's mind was suddenly working again. When it came down to it, they both knew people they could call on. After a few moments they had an action plan worked out. Now they just needed to implement it. It was going to take a little doing, but they'd manage.

They had to.

It was then that Steve turned back to Bucky, heaving a sigh. Sam turned too, fixing the former HYDRA agent with a hard look.

"What are we going to do about him?" What indeed. Bucky still sat slumped against the vise, his cybernetic arm still tightly secured in the industrial machinery. Steve knew where Sam was going with his question. They needed Bucky to get to Siberia and the bunker and they needed his undeniable combat skills, but he was also a huge liability. If they got to Siberia and the doctor was able to activate Bucky's programming again? They were already likely going to be up against five more Winter Soldiers. It was going to be hard enough even if they could get as many others on their side as they hoped. If Bucky were to be forced into fighting against them instead of with them?

But they didn't really have a choice.

"We need him. It's a risk we have to take," Steve answered, meeting Sam's concerned gaze before looking back to Bucky. Sam obviously wasn't entirely happy about it, but Steve could see in the set expression on his face that he understood why. He knew Sam. The former paratrooper could read their situation the same way Steve could; their need outweighed the risk. They needed Bucky on their side. After a moment Sam nodded in agreement, just as Steve knew he would.

"Alright then. I'll make some calls." Steve nodded, running a tired hand over his face as he began running over in his head what needed to be tied up before they left, forcing his own, more personal worries aside; there was no time to dwell on things he couldn't change. They began to ease their way back across the room toward Bucky. It was probably as good a time as any to let him loose. There was little reason to keep him restrained anymore. They were barely halfway across the dusty space when the Captain looked up to Sam, another thought hitting him.

"And the girl's okay where she is?" Before Sam could even open his mouth Bucky's head shot up, his pale eyes wide as they latched on to Steve.

"Girl? What gir—" If it was possible his eye went wider still before his face fell, the man looking utterly defeated. Steve watched, startled, as Bucky's shoulders seemed to slump even further. "Iris," he breathed, his voice choked and hollow. "Did I hurt her?" Bucky looked up as he spoke, his expression nearly desperate. Sam frowned at the restrained man, eying him warily as he hesitated over whose question to answer first. He glanced to Steve for direction, knowing the Captain could still read Bucky better than he could.

But that only set Bucky off.

With a screeching wrench the former assassin jerked forward, his face twisted with anguish and furious desperation, nearly pulling his arm free in his anger. "Damn it! Answer me! Did I hurt her?" His voice broke even as his temper did. The instant the metallic shriek had echoed through the warehouse Steve had taken a quick step forward, gesturing for Sam to back off as he fixed a suddenly coolly feral Bucky with an assessing glance.

"Buck, she's fine," Steve finally said softly, keeping his voice low. It did little to ease the wild look in Bucky's eyes. After a moment he spared Sam an entreating glance, taking in the way the former paratrooper was trying and failing to hide his shock. Sam cleared his throat at the look, still eying the restrained man warily.

"Yeah. Yeah, no, she's okay. Shaken up, a little bruised, but fine. I left her holed up in a hotel just outside the city. I tried to convince her to head back to the States on the next flight out, but she was having none of it. But she's safe where she is for now." Steve's attention was fixed back on Bucky as Sam made his report. As soon as Sam confirmed she was okay, relief surged onto Bucky's face, his entire body nearly going limp with it. His free hand, tightly fisted until now, slowly loosened. A glint of light from the movement caught Steve's attention, but he was too far away and Bucky's hand tilted just so that he couldn't make out what it was.

Satisfied that he was in control of his temper again, Steve eased forward to loosen the industrial vise. With a wince of discomfort Bucky lifted his arm down, flexing the metal fist before shooting Steve a grateful but reserved look. But then his gaze fell back to his flesh hand, his metal one rubbing harshly across his face.

"Why was she there," Bucky mumbled, eyes fixed on whatever it was in his hand, causing Steve to frown as he retreated back to stand with Sam, "She's supposed to be safe back in DC." His fingers tightened again, hiding whatever it was he was holding. He didn't quite seem to be expecting an answer. Steve sighed, suddenly worried this woman was going to be a much bigger complication than he thought. He'd gone along with Sam's insistence that she needed to be kept safe, inferring from his guarded resolve on the matter that she was significant in some way—not that he'd mentioned she was significant to Bucky—but Steve hadn't really given her much more thought once his attention had turned back to his oldest friend. Now…well, it wasn't hard to put the pieces together.

"Buck?" At first he wouldn't look up at the sound of Steve's voice. But Steve was patient, waiting until his best friend's face lifted to meet his. "Buck, how serious was—is it?" Bucky didn't need to say anything. Steve could see it in his face. Funny how, even after everything, after all this time, he could still read Bucky like a book. He sighed again. "That serious, huh?"

"I'd do anything to keep her safe," Bucky finally said softly, grimly, his gaze dropping back to his hand. The glint caught Steve's eye again, and this time he was able to place it; it was a fine chain, like that of a necklace. He glanced back to Sam, easily reading what was written in the other man's face as the former paratrooper watched Bucky. Steve crossed his arms, one hand rising to rest against his chin as he thought.

"And how does she feel about you?" A wan grin peeked out from behind Bucky's curtain of tangled hair.

"If she followed me here? Far more than she should…unless she's here to kill me too. Then about as much as she should," he said blandly. Sam snorted, drawing the gazes of both Steve and Bucky.

"I don't think she wants to kill you," he said, an amused grin playing about his mouth, his dark eyes twinkling. Steve was nearly inclined to chuckle, a small huffing breath as close as he got. Bucky's face fell.

"She should. She knows now…all of it. And I…she just should…" It should have been bitter, but Bucky only sounded tired and dejected. Sam and Steve exchanged a concerned look before Sam turned back to Bucky.

"She knew you were the Winter Soldier before you left; she figured it out all on her own. She also knows you weren't you back there. She doesn't hate you for what happened." Bucky froze in shock at Sam's assertion, his eyes wide and horrified before he squeezed them shut to hide the myriad other emotions surfacing. But that wasn't all of it. Instinctively, Steve knew there was more to what was bothering him.

"Why?" he prompted quietly. Bucky looked haunted as he glanced up to Steve, his head slowly shaking no.

"Considering how I left?" Steve frowned at the answer, his gaze questioning. Bucky didn't say it aloud, but the shamed way his eyes slid from Steve's said more than enough. The Captain swore under his breath, causing Bucky to wince. Steve was the first to admit it took a great deal to get him to curse beyond the odd mild oath.

"I didn't want t—I couldn't stay—I couldn't—I had to keep her safe…" He groaned, his face falling to his metal hand as his flesh one tightened around the necklace; that's what it had to be, Steve concluded; her necklace. "As long as I stayed she wasn't safe. So I left…one morning, before she woke up, I left." Steve said nothing, his expression guarded. But the pained look on Bucky's face as he glanced up said he could see past it. Sam whistled low.

"Damn, that's cold." Bucky shot him a scathing look.

"I left her because of you," he snapped in response, chastening Sam at once, "because you showed up and started asking questions about me. If you could find me HYDRA wasn't likely to be far behind; they weren't far behind—it's what I've been doing this past year; hunting them down; keeping them away from her. I couldn't risk them finding her.

"I'm not proud of the way I left." his irritation had faded quickly to a bitter, exhausted resignation. His face dropped back into his hand, his voice pained and muffled, "but I didn't have any other choice."

After a long, quiet moment Bucky sighed heavily, pulling himself wearily to his feet. "Why is she here?" It was said with the most peculiar combination of despondency and low, hard anger. Steve glanced to Sam, curious himself what the answer to that was. He nearly smiled as Sam bristled at the aggression suddenly pouring off the former HYDRA agent even as a flicker of guilt surfaced in his dark eyes. Taking in a bracing breath, Sam straightened.

"She was there because she made me promise to tell her when we found you. And I keep my word." Bucky glared at him while Steve stared in surprise. Sam hadn't told him that. Although, Sam hadn't really told him much about this Iris, save that she'd seen Bucky before he'd left DC. Sam boldly met Bucky's eye. "She contacted me after you left and made me promise to keep her in the loop. So when we tracked you to Bucharest, I let her know we knew where you were—nothing more." He shrugged then, grimacing, "but then you know how that turned out. I guess she got impatient waiting for me to contact her again. Once she heard on the news that we were heading to Berlin, she hopped on the next plane here." Bucky frowned, his ire at Sam momentarily forgotten as he processed what Sam had just told him. Steve couldn't help but watch the exchange with interest.

"She's never left DC; she doesn't even have a passport," he objected quietly, a thread of accusation in his voice as he eyed Sam. Sam shrugged again, an amused grin returning easily to his naturally friendly features.

"I guess she does now."

This time Steve chuckled. "You like her," he stated, catching the black man's eye. Sam shrugged lightly in response, his eyes still twinkling.

"She's got spunk and she's persistent, I'll give her that," he answered with a grin. Bucky glowered at him. Steve nearly laughed at the blatantly jealous look.

Sam's grin widened when he too caught sight of the expression, holding up his hands in a gesture of peace. "Hey, I'm not going to make a move on your girl, man. I don't to that," his eyes crinkled with wry amusement at the way Bucky's eyes narrowed suspiciously, "not that she'd give me the time of day if I tried. She hasn't been texting me for months because she likes me. She's still pretty hung up on you." Bucky relaxed, a faint, smug expression tugging at his mouth and eyes. Steve chuckled again, drawing his oldest friend's attention.

"You always did have a way with women; they were always crazy about you. And somehow, no matter what, you always managed to use that to find me a date. I have no idea how you did it, but you were always able to charm dames to put up with me for an evening." A faint, depreciating grin appeared on Bucky's face, one that Steve almost missed, but it was there.

"Yeah, well, it was a lot easier when my head wasn't scrambled and I was a war hero rather than a HYDRA assassin—a villain," Bucky said, a congenial veneer pasted over a grim expression. He was trying to act like his old self, Steve realized, putting up a good-natured front to distract from his regret and despair. And to hide his fears.

"She doesn't think you're a villain." Both Steve and Bucky turned back to Sam. The former paratrooper stood with his arms crossed over his chest, not looking at either of the supersoldiers in front of him at first, before raising his abruptly serious gaze to meet Bucky's head on, all trace of levity gone from his features. Steve glanced at Bucky, gauging his reaction to Sam's statement. He'd paled, and while there was a flicker of hope in his steel-blue eyes, it was nearly drowned out by resignation…by doubt. Bucky sighed heavily, unable to hold Sam's steadfast and pointedly frank gaze. He glanced down at his hand again, his fingers opening to reveal the necklace. Steve finally got a good look at it.

It was a sunflower.

"I don't deserve her," Bucky finally murmured, raising his eyes back up to Sam, his expression bleak and full of self-loathing.

Sam shrugged. "Probably not." Steve groaned inwardly as he shot Sam a look that said he wasn't helping. Sam ignored him. "But then," Bucky frowned, eyeing Falcon warily when the dark-skinned man continued, face still just as staid as when he started, though the corner of his lip quirked minutely, "you probably didn't deserve a woman like her before HYDRA went and messed with your head, either." Steve looked at Sam in astonishment only for a small sound from Bucky to startle him even further. It was an indignant snort. The self-deprecating grin had returned to Bucky's face, but it wasn't nearly so grim as it had been before. He glanced over at Steve, who was still watching his friend in bewilderment.

"You know, I think that hurts my feelings," Bucky murmured. It surprised a laugh out of Steve. He clapped the dark-haired man on the shoulder, more relieved than he could say to see traces of his old friend emerging from beneath the brainwashed soldier, even if it only lasted a few moments. But then Bucky sobered, looking at Steve.

"Could you…" he hesitated, visibly struggling over just what he wanted to ask, "Could you give her a message for me? Tell her—I'm—that I—" He faltered, looking down to the sunflower pendant before holding it out to Steve. "Just…just make sure she's alright; I need to know she'll be alright. That she'll be safe." Steve looked down at the delicate pendant resting in the palm of his friend's hand before shooting Bucky an exasperated glance, a tremor of unease flickering in his chest.

"Buck, c'mon. Don't be like that."

"Please, Steve." The desperation had returned as Bucky's pleading gaze bored into Steve's, "I need you to keep her safe. To…to tell her I lo—that I'm sorry." Steve inhaled deeply, considering how best to respond. It wasn't hard to tell what Bucky had nearly said. He let out a long breath before reaching out toward the necklace.

He closed Bucky's fingers back over it, enclosing it safely in his grip. He smiled faintly at Bucky's alarmed expression.

"You can tell her yourself when this is all over."


	23. Chapter 23

There was a distinct possibility that Iris was going to sink back into the near-comatose mess she'd fallen into after James had left. Either that or she was going to go insane.

She hadn't heard anything.

Nothing.

Not a word from Sam since he'd had her check into this hotel.

And that was days ago.

Days of doing nothing but sitting and ruminating on everything. Everything from her memories of James in DC to the dead look in his eyes when he'd been under the mind-control only a handful of days ago. Her hand lifted automatically to her throat only to clench as it hovered above her collarbone, knowing very well that it had become a useless tic. Her eyes prickled again but she blinked past it. There was no point in crying over it; the necklace was gone. Likely broken or torn off when James had sent her flying into that glass wall. She was upset that it was gone, of course, but she couldn't bring herself to resent it or blame him.

Just like she couldn't quite bring herself to blame him for the giant black and purple bruise spreading from just above her shoulder blade that she had predicted. It still ached to move, especially her shoulders, but it was finally starting to ease. She was healing well enough. At least, physically she was.

Mentally she wasn't so sure. If she hadn't wondered if there was something wrong with her before, she was certainly wondering now.

Not wanting to turn James in when she'd realized who he was? That made a certain amount of sense then. She hadn't known who he was at first and he had proven himself a good man over and over again, even saving her life before she found out the truth about who he was. Once she knew he was the Winter Soldier, however, the logic became murky. By then she'd cared about him…even loved him already. She was sure it was crazy, her impulse not to turn him in—to keep him safe, her subconscious insisted—even when any sense of civic responsibility said she should have. Hell, she lied to the police for him. If that didn't say something…

Then he'd left. After that she should have let him go, moved on with her life. But she hadn't. She'd held on to her feelings, her memories. She'd made a deal with Sam Wilson to make sure she was told when James was finally found. She'd gotten a passport so that she could get to him no matter where in the world he reappeared. And she'd done it too. Her very presence in Berlin was testament to her devotion…obsession? She ground her palms against her eyes. Yes, she had to be obsessive. Anyone else she knew would have given up on him, on ever seeing him again, ages ago. But nope! Not her. Iris held on to her feelings and to the hope that she'd see him again, that they could someday be together. If part of her didn't feel utterly pathetic about that…

And then she'd seen what he was capable of, had seen what any sane person would insist he was. She'd looked into his face and seen nothing; no emotion, no humanity, nothing. She'd watched him hurt people, kill even. She'd nearly watched him kill a woman even as Iris had been trying to stop him. She'd watched him throw another through a plate glass window. She'd watched him try to shoot Tony Stark. She'd had nightmares of those few horrible moments every night since then. She had to be nuts not to want to run screaming from the man behind it all.

But despite it all, despite her common sense telling her she should be trying her best to forget him, she couldn't help herself; she still cared for him. She still loved him.

And she needed him to know that.

She didn't even know when she'd realized that. All she knew was that she should have told him as much that last night when he'd stayed. In a way she had, even if it wasn't in those specific words; the way she'd asked him to stay after they'd made love had said it the only way she'd been certain he wouldn't run from. Now she couldn't help but wonder what might have happened had she said 'I love you' then for real. Might he have stayed a little longer? Taken her with him? No, he never would have taken her with him. He might have told her he was leaving, though…Iris harshly shook her head.

It was a foolish and childish line of thinking. 'What ifs' wouldn't help her here. She needed to figure out a plan, a course of action. Because she couldn't just sit here anymore. She couldn't afford to.

She was running out of patience, sanity and, more practically, money. She'd blown what little she'd had in the way of savings to get to Germany in the first place and was almost out of cash. She wasn't sure how she was going to get back to the States, not that she was seriously considering that step yet anyway. She didn't want to leave without seeing James, without knowing he was alright. But that seemed more and more unlikely as the days passed.

Especially since the news of an epic showdown at the Leipzig Airport had exploded onto news stations around the world the other day. The Avengers had imploded, splitting into two factions to clash with catastrophic results, destroying the airport. And somehow Captain Rogers and James had managed to elude capture.

Sam and the rest of their team hadn't been so lucky. They were now apparently being held in some undisclosed location, very much under arrest this time. As a result, Iris very much doubted she was going to hear from Sam any time soon.

Which meant she was on her own. And she was helplessly lost as a result. She didn't know the first thing about where to go from here. Which was probably why she was still languishing in this hotel room. As soon as the news had broken that Sam was locked up and James was on the run with Steve, she'd known she was on her own. It certainly hadn't taken her days to figure that out. Her common sense told her that she should be booking her flight home to DC and figure out what to do next from there, where she still had a apartment and could find a job—there was no way she still had her restaurant one after the way she left, that she knew.

It was the practical thing to do, the rational thing.

But damn, every instinct she had balked at the idea of giving up and running home.

Then she tried to convince herself it wouldn't be giving up, but regrouping. The little instinctive part of her had practically laughed hysterically at such a pitiful excuse. Then she proceeded to hate herself and her situation for a bit before starting up the cycle all over again.

And that's how she had spent the days since she heard her contact had been arrested and her lover was on the run; it felt so right to call him that, but that damned practical side of her was skeptical of the term's accuracy. But her gut insisted it was true just as it insisted she needed to stay put. She would figure something out, and if she didn't, Sam or Steve or, just maybe, James would…he had to know she was here…Sam had to have told him.

The independent part of her scoffed at placing her faith in others so completely, especially since one of them was definitely not in a position to actually be of help. But the trusting part? She needed to trust that the ones who knew what they were doing would figure things out…and that they wouldn't forget about her.

Well wasn't she just a head-case, all these different sides of her warring with each other. Iris groaned as she flopped down to sprawl across the bed, wincing as the nearly healed goose-egg on the back of her head scraped against the stiff edge of the mattress, sending a prickle of pain across her scalp.

Misery threatened to choke her at the absent thought that they might forget she was still here, waiting desperately for word that James was okay. Heck, even that Sam was alright; he was her friend now, or at least she thought of him as such, and she'd be lying if she said she wasn't worried about him too.

But she wasn't a part of their world, not really. She sniffled unattractively as the misery tried to manifest in tears again. She was only part of it in the smallest, most miniscule way possible, and that was only because she'd given into an strange, insistent urge to trust a secretive man wanting to rent out an apartment from her. It was a fluke, really, that she'd ever gotten involved in this world of Avengers and HYDRA agents and Enhanced persons. But now she was. She scrubbed away the moisture trying to gather in the corners of her eyes. She was a part of their world now whether she—or they—liked it or not. Iris sat up, clearing her throat and forcing herself to her feet.

And she was not about to back away in defeat. If she needed to wait, she would. But if she found a way to do something, well, she wasn't going to back away from that either.

As though waiting for her to finally find her resolve, it was at that moment a knock sounded at her door.

Iris nearly jumped out of her skin.

Suddenly struggling to calm her racing heartbeat, she walked over to the door, hand reaching for the handle. But then she hesitated, a sense of caution coming over her as her fingertips glanced over the brushed metal. Inhaling deeply, she leaned up to peer through the peephole.

With a gasp, her fingers closed around the handle as she all but yanked the door open. There were three people outside her door—two of them lean, powerful-looking, ebony-skinned men in crisp dark suits that she'd never seen before, both waiting just off to the side—but Iris was only able to stare with wide-eyed disbelief at the man standing directly in front of her.

"You were arrested," she blurted out, frowning with confusion. A crooked, amused grin stretched across Sam's face as he shrugged.

"Temporarily, as it turns out." A small, relieved huff of a laugh burst out of Iris as she darted forward, wrapping her arms around the man in a tight hug. With a short laugh he hugged her back. "You weren't worried about me, were ya'?" She pulled away, giving him an exasperated look.

"I repeat: you were arrested. And after quite an extensively broadcast bit of destruction and mayhem that totaled an airport." He shrugged again, a faint sheepish cast to his otherwise smiling features.

"Yeah, well, fair enough. Cap did have to break us out after that." Iris' eyes went wide again, only this time with a more fearful form of shock. But Sam held out a hand to calm her before she could react further, gesturing for her to retreat back into her room. With a nod to his companions, he shut the door behind him, following Iris inside.

"So who are they?" Iris gestured back toward the door and the two men currently waiting outside. Sam paused, glancing over his shoulder himself before answering.

"Wakandans. They're our ride." Iris was taken aback.

"Wakandans? Ride? Sam, what's—" He crossed his arms, raising his eyebrows at her in mock condescension.

"Really? You already forgot what I said before I left you here?" Iris' frown deepened at his teasing tone, her mind whirring to recall everything he'd said the day James had escaped.

And then it ground to a halt.

"You'll see him again," she breathed, repeating Sam's almost-promise. She glanced up at the former paratrooper, her chest constricting painfully as disbelief warred with hope, making it hard to breath. She couldn't even put the question she was suddenly desperate to ask into words. But Sam knew anyway, nodding gently before saying it out loud.

"We're takin' you to him."


	24. Chapter 24

As he walked past, Steve couldn't help but look at the cryostasis unit, unable to help the concern he felt knowing that Bucky was willingly allowing himself to be frozen again. He couldn't help it. After everything the man had gone through, putting him into cryosleep again felt…not wrong, but undeserved. He shouldn't have to. It clashed with Steve's inner sense of justice. But then, a lot of things had been at odds with his personal moral compass these last few weeks.

Ahead of him Bucky sat on the cot directly across from the unit, an IV hooked into his remaining arm, the stump of his metal one sleeved in a soft-looking black covering. He looked more himself than Steve had seen him since their days with the Howling Commandos; his hair clean, brushed and trimmed—though still far longer than he'd have ever worn it during the War—his white cotton shirt and pants crisp and neat. His gaze was distant even as he stared at the prepped stasis pod, the unit serving as a physical manifestation of his choice. And it was his choice. Had it not been, there was no way Steve would be going along with it.

Bucky looked up as Steve approached, and the relief that look drew out did a great deal to beat back Steve's concern; his steel-blue eyes were clear and content and all Bucky. A reserved grin appeared on Steve's face to greet the one on his oldest friend's. It gave Steve a grim sort of reassurance to see Bucky so at peace with the prospect of being put under again. Oh, he could see the apprehension, but that was only natural considering the circumstances that had seen him frozen each and every occasion previous. Perhaps it was because this time he was doing it of his own free will; he'd chosen this, and Steve imagined Bucky'd had very little in the way of choice over the last seventy years.

"Sure about this?" Bucky exhaled heavily at Steve's question, his expression sobering as his gaze slid back to the cryostasis unit.

"I can't trust my own mind," he replied. He glanced back to Steve, a self-depreciating smile easing across his face for a moment before fading again. "So until they figure out how to get this stuff out of my head I think going back under is the best thing," he smiled again, though there was a shadow in his eyes that left Steve feeling sad, "for everybody." There was no mistaking who everybody meant. Steve sighed, ignoring the silent hope that lingered, despite its unlikelihood, that Sam would complete his 'errand' and make it to Wakanda in time. But he forced a reassuring smile, laying a hand on Bucky's shoulder, pointedly not looking to the small sunflower pendant that his friend now had fastened around his neck. He knew from the way Bucky's lip tugged that the former HYDRA agent saw right through the attempt, but he smiled back anyway, reaching out to lay a grateful hand of his own on Steve's shoulder.

A doctor walked past, pausing to slip past Steve to check on Bucky's IV. Drawing away, Steve hazarded another glance to the stasis unit, still trying to reconcile himself with Bucky's choice as the doctor spoke softly with the former HYDRA agent. But then, as he turned back to Bucky, movement out in the hallway beyond the glass wall that bordered one side of the room caught his attention. Steve allowed himself a small sigh of relief, unable to help the pleased smile when he saw what, or rather, who it was.

They'd made it.

Just beyond the glass wall T'Challa was shaking hands in greeting with Sam, the two men exchanging reserved grins as they spoke, their words lost behind the glass. But it wasn't them Steve had been most eager to see. Rather, he was relieved to see the woman standing beside Sam, her hazel eyes wide as she looked to the King she was meeting, her cloud of short, dark curls framing her drawn, nervous face even as her hands clung white-knuckled to the shoulder strap of her bag.

But as Steve turned back to Bucky, he frowned.

Bucky's own face had blanched, his blue eyes wide and unreadable beyond the most obvious descriptor of shock, and his whole body had tensed as soon as he saw her. His own brow furrowing deeper, Steve stepped closer, watching his friend warily. He was completely taken aback by how scared Bucky suddenly seemed.

During their flight to Siberia, Bucky had always circled back to her, to worrying about her, to asking Steve to make sure she was alright when it was over. He hadn't expected to be able to even think of seeing her again, expecting either to be forced on the run again…or that he wouldn't make it out the other side. As soon as Steve had gotten Sam out of the Raft, the decision had been made between the two of them to retrieve her for Bucky. This reaction, though, was not exactly what Steve had expected. Certainly relief, just seeing that she was alright. Hopefully some happiness, even delight or elation. Trepidation, maybe; given how Bucky had apparently left things and how their last reunion had gone, it was to be expected.

But outright fear?

But he didn't have time to think on it further for, at that moment, as she took in the newness of her surroundings, Iris caught sight of Bucky. A great whooshing breath of relief seemed to leave her as her eyes grew bright, her face overcome with an expression of disbelief and anticipation. Another shuddering breath left the man beside Steve. No longer even aware of Sam and T'Challa, in a heartbeat had she pushed between them, her hand coming to rest on the glass that separated her from the dark-haired man staring right back at her. She barely even noticed at first when the Wakandan King laid a hand on her arm, directing her around the corner to the door.

"What's she doing here?" Bucky's voice was hoarse and Steve lifted a perplexed eyebrow at his baffling reaction. "Steve, she shouldn't be here."

"James?" At the sound of the soft, questioning voice every trace of tension bled out of him, his eyes sliding shut as though Bucky couldn't believe he'd just heard it. In a heartbeat the young woman was across the room and standing before him, completely ignoring Steve just as she had Sam and T'Challa. Her hand reached out, but she hesitated just short of touching his stubbled cheek.

"Iris." Bucky's eyes had opened as soon as she had started crossing the room, his gaze darting across her features, her form, desperately checking to see that she was okay. And just as she had, as soon as she'd come to a stop in front of him his hand had lifted from his thigh, reaching toward her only to hesitate and draw back. Neither seemed to know what to do, what to say, both suddenly afraid to try and broach the gulf the last week—the last year, really—had created between them. Steve nearly shook his head in fond exasperation.

"And I'm invisible again, just like I used to be," he quipped lightly to break the silence, raising a pointed eyebrow at Bucky. Bucky's gaze jolted to Steve, his eyes narrowing with exasperation of his own, though his far more annoyed than Steve's. Steve just grinned, trying not to laugh at his friend's reaction. His sense of relief deepened then; that he'd recognized Steve's teasing, and obviously remembered the history behind it, was more proof that Bucky was finding himself again. He didn't glare at the Captain long though, his steel-blue eyes returning at once to Iris. The tension, if not broken, had at least eased enough that Bucky was able to find his voice.

"You're okay?" His question was so quiet and so rough Steve barely heard it. But it was something Steve knew had been weighing heavily on him since the warehouse, since Bucky had remembered Iris' unexpected presence in Berlin. He'd heard the answer from Steve and Sam both, but what Bucky really needed was to hear it from her. With a cautious smile, Iris nodded.

"A little bruised, but I suppose that's what I get when I—" But then she froze, her eyes going wide again with disbelief as her eyes flicked to his face from the pendent resting against his collarbone.

This time she didn't hesitate, her fingers brushing against his skin as they traced over the sunflower resting there. Bucky swallowed thickly, anxiety flickering in his eyes again.

"I thought it was gone," she breathed, her eyes rising to meet his, "but you had it." Steve couldn't quite discern just what her reaction was and, judging by the look on Bucky's face, he wasn't sure either. But warily Bucky nodded, his gaze slipping from hers.

"It was in my hand when I got my mind back," he said quietly, "I, uh, I don't—I don't know why I—" Her hand lifted from the necklace to his face, her palm cradling his clenched jaw.

"Because you knew me," she said, voice quavering with a sudden influx of emotion, "you knew me, and you protected me." And then her arms were around him, drawing a satisfied grin from Steve as Bucky's eyes slipped shut in relief.

No sooner had she wrapped her arms around him then she began trembling. Letting loose a another shuddering exhale of his own, Bucky's remaining arm was immediately circling around her, pulling her as close as he could manage as he buried his face in the crook of her neck.

It was such an intimate moment that Steve's gaze shifted away of its own accord. It was then that he noticed the two doctors in the room had wrapped up their prep work and were waiting patiently off to the side. With a subtle gesture Steve motioned for the doctors to give them a minute, something they thankfully acceded to; though, not before the woman shot Bucky and Iris' tender moment a pleased and approving glance that nearly had Steve chuckling again. Restraining his own wide smile into a satisfied grin, Steve turned back to the couple as the door eased shut.

He realized then that, with every shaking breath, Iris was murmuring anxiously into Bucky's shoulder. At first Steve couldn't even make out what she was saying, her rushed, nearly panicked words mingling with the low, soothing sounds coming from Bucky. Once he did, he immediately thought she was reassuring Bucky, but as more and more words spilled out, he realized she was reassuring herself:

"You're alright. You're okay. You're okay. God, James, I was so afraid—so scared. The footage from the airport? I thought I was never going to see you again. I needed to know you were okay, but there was no word, no news, nothing." As her voice grew louder Bucky drew back, his hand rising from his tight hold around her waist to tenderly brush back her curls and cup her cheek. With an audible click of teeth, she cut her ramblings off.

"I'm okay," he murmured back, his thumb brushing across her cheek to catch the first tears beginning to fall, his lip tugging into that almost smile of his as he tilted his head to catch her eye, "really. I'm me again, and you're here with me." She nodded jerkily, struggling against stream of emotions and worries still trying to pour out of the mind they'd been caught rioting around in for days. After a moment she seemed to have regained control of herself, a gasping breath breaking through the silence she'd enforced on herself.

"I know," she said quietly, her voice far more measured even though it still held traces of distress in its tremulous undertone. "But, God, I was so scared. Especially on the way here, when Sam said things hadn't gone well for you; that you'd been in a fight against Iron Man? That you were in bad shape? I feared the worst." Her fingertips hovered over the marks that still lingered on his face, the creases forming between her brows marking her concern over how slowly they were healing. Steve could tell from that look that she was guessing—correctly too—that his body had suffered enough abuse in their fight against Tony that he wasn't healing as fast as he normally would have. "And your arm—"

Bucky's jaw clenched self-consciously when her eyes dropped to what was left of his cybernetic arm. A tense smile flickered across his face as her fingers lifted to the remnants of the metal limb, his hand closing gently around hers and pulling it away.

"It's no great loss," he assured her, his eyes pleading as they caught hers again. Her head tilted sadly as a comprehending light glinted in her eyes, only to be overtaken by a far more determined expression. Steve's eyebrows lifted with surprise even as Bucky frowned with bewilderment.

"I found it strangely beautiful, you know," she objected quietly, her tone nevertheless still gentle as her free fingers threaded into his hair, "and you shouldn't forget, it saved my life." A soft groan of realization escaped Bucky at the reminder, a faint look crossing his face to settle in his friend's steel-blue eyes that Steve tentatively identified as a mixture of acceptance and adoration. She grinned with satisfaction. "I can't help but mourn it a little, James." A burst of laughter caught in Steve's throat, though he managed to restrain it to a huffing breath as his eyebrows lifted with amusement. Bucky did not look impressed when he caught sight of that look.

"James?" Steve asked, fighting back a smile. Bucky nearly scowled at Steve's ribbing tone, earning a look of bewilderment from Iris as she glanced between them with curious frown. A chuckle managed to escape him. "C'mon, Buck—there was a while there where you wouldn't let your own mother call you James." The corner of Bucky's mouth twitched, the reminder nearly startling a laugh out of him despite his determination to glare unhappily at Steve.

"Well, she's not my mother, is she," he snarked back, pulling another laugh from Steve and a playful smack from Iris. A full-blown grin spread across his face as he looked to Iris again before shooting Steve a silent request. Understanding completely, Steve nodded back before stepping back from the couple.

"Of course. I'll be just outside." But just as Steve reached the door he paused, unable to resist one last teasing remark at his best friend's expense; after all, he'd endured his fair share growing up. It was only right to return the favour…

"And Buck," Two pairs of eyes, one faintly exasperated steel-blue and the other bright but distracted hazel, swiveled to Steve where he stood at the far end of the medical lab. Steve grinned cheekily, "no hanky-panky; there is a window." The glare he received should have laid him out flat right then and there.

But then Bucky's eyes glinted roguishly. "Punk," he muttered, the corner of his lip quirking despite himself. Steve couldn't help the feeling of warmth that spread through him as his grin widened further.

"Jerk," the Captain fired back just as quietly before turning and finally leaving the long-parted couple alone.

Right as the door slid shut Steve heard Iris ask with scandalized astonishment, "did he just say hanky-panky?" Steve could only laugh as he turned the corner back out into the hallway where T'Challa and Sam and a slowly growing group of observers waited. The former paratrooper met Steve's silent thanks with a nod of his own.

"Needed to happen," Sam said quietly as the three men settled into a loose circle. Steve nodded, glancing back over his shoulder to his oldest friend and his girl.

"Yes it did," he murmured back as, behind the silencing wall of glass, Bucky leaned in to kiss the woman he obviously loved.


	25. Chapter 25

James chuckled at her as the door clicked shut, his eyes twinkling at the surprised look she imagined was on her face at _Captain America_ 's word choice. Iris snorted in disbelief, an amused grin breaking through even as James' hand found its way back into her hair. But her grin faded as his steel-blue eyes grew serious. His fingers tangled themselves in her curls as his jaw alternatively tensed and relaxed. Her hand lifted to his face again, her thumb tracing over the clenched muscles of his jaw until they eased. He inhaled deeply before the words began spilling from his lips, his voice hoarse and anxious.

"You—you knew who I was, _what_ I was— _what_ I am and yet you—with me—" he faltered, still looking up at her with anxious disbelief.

"Yet I still wanted you," Iris finished for him, "still invited you into my bed? Still wanted you to touch me?" Her voice was soft and questioning as she finished his thought. He nodded stiffly, his gaze nearly dropping from hers. Iris sighed, her fingers carding through his hair as she watched the distressing play of emotions across his face; shame, self-reproach, guilt.

"Why?" He was pleading for an answer, to understand. She supposed it made sense that he still couldn't quite understand why she didn't think he'd used her, or taken advantage of her. She had at first, but those feelings were long gone, banished by the realization of why he'd done what he did. He couldn't wrap his head around the idea that she could possibly want him, could care for him, knowing the truth about him and his past as she did. He didn't believe he could deserve her, deserve this. She leaned in, resting her forehead against his.

"Why?" she repeated, her other hand rising to cup his jaw as well, tilting his face so she could meet his beautiful, conflicted gaze, "I love you." It was the simplest answer in the world, and Iris simply said it. His fingers tightened in her hair.

And he pressed his lips to hers.

Iris sighed, melting against him as he kissed her, his mouth warm and hesitant against hers, as though asking if this were alright. Her arms wound around him, pressing herself closer, deepening the kiss as her heart thundered happily in her chest, tracing his lips with her tongue until they parted for her, kissing her back almost desperately. It was more than alright.

He drew back with an erratic inhale, his fingertips loosening from her dark curls to trace along the sensitive skin of her neck before dropping to slip beneath her jacket and tighten around her waist. Another sigh escaped Iris as his face dipped to spot his fingers had ghosted over before nuzzling against the juncture of her neck. The sensation of his breath on her skin followed by the warm brush of his lips sent shivers through her.

"You're so soft," he murmured against her shoulder, "and too good for me." He raised his head, resting his forehead against hers again, his eyes simultaneously warm and reserved. "You kept me sane, Iris. You helped me keep my head. After I left you—" he faltered again, his eyes closing in pain. Her hand rubbed soothing circles against his back as she studied his face, taking in every flicker of gratitude and guilt and uncertainty. She smiled sadly, brushing her lips over his.

"You didn't have to, you know. I would have done anything. I could have come with you." His eyes opened to meet hers solemnly as he slowly shook his head.

"No. No, you couldn't have. I couldn't put you in that kind of danger." She sighed sadly.

"You would have kept me safe," she insisted with soft certainty. The grin that tugged at his mouth said that, while grateful for her trust, he didn't have the same faith she did.

"You were safe in DC. Safe away from me." A disagreeing sound caught in her throat, causing his brow to furrow with a silent plea for explanation. Her lip catching between her teeth, Iris hesitated, her fingers tracing her necklace where it hung at the base of his throat.

"You broke my heart when you left, James," she finally ventured quietly. "But I couldn't stop caring about you. I couldn't bring myself to hate you, or to let you go, to move on. Everything was different. I couldn't get back to where I was before you came into my life. Everything hurt. Everything reminded me of you. It got so bad that I couldn't bear to stay in the townhouse…so I sold it." He tensed at her confession, his eyes widening with guilty concern. A strained smile tugged at her lips before she continued, the memory of the early days after he'd left still too close and too painful. "I might have been safe, James. But I wasn't whole. Not without you." It was cliché and quite possibly overdramatic and it made the independent side of her roll its eyes with disparagement, but it didn't stop the quiet ring of truth that rang through Iris as she said it. James' hand tightened on her waist, fisting in the fabric of her shirt.

"If it wasn't for me—it's all my fault, Iris. I'm sorry. If I hadn't—" She sighed with exasperation, placing her fingers over his lips to silence him as he hung his head, refusing to look at her. That wasn't how she'd meant him to take it. She should have known better, she admitted to herself with frustration.

"I could have said no," she countered firmly, a smile playing around her lips. He looked up at that, confusion nearly outweighing the guilt and self-approbation on his face.

"What—"

"I could have said no," Iris repeated, placing her hand on his cheek again, her thumb grazing over one of the many pale scars she knew were written all over his body, forcing his distraught gaze up to meet hers. "I could have closed the door in your face like my common sense told me to. I didn't have to rent you that apartment. I didn't have to bring you food. I didn't have to do any of it. I could have saved myself so much heartache if I'd simply turned you away. But I didn't say no. Instead I gave you the key.

"And I'm glad I did." A shudder went through him, one that Iris couldn't decode. But he leaned toward her again, his forehead meeting hers as his arm curled tighter around her waist.

They stood like that for what felt like forever, his arm secure and warm around her waist, Iris' hand caressing his jaw as her other arm wound around his shoulders, fingers playing gently with his hair. Iris never wanted it to end.

But it had to end. With a disappointed sound rumbling in his chest, James glanced over toward the glass wall. "It's time," he murmured softly, "and there's so much—things I want to say, to tell you; things I have to tell you…secrets you deserve to know…" but her finger pressed against his lips, silencing him. Now wasn't the time for that. She hadn't bothered to look up, her focus solely on him. She could guess what he'd seen; someone—either a doctor or Steve or maybe even the King whose name had flown clear out of her head—had gestured that their moment had drawn to a close. She knew what was about to happen. It was one of the few things she remembered the Wakandan King saying in those brief moments before she'd caught sight of James through the glass.

Off on the other side of the room Iris heard the door open, several pairs of feet entering to disperse throughout the room. She drew back, studying James' familiar face, tracing the shape of his vibrant eyes, his full lips, the cleft in his chin, his dark brows, the strong set of his jaw.

"You're sure about this?" The smile he gave her was lighter than any she'd ever seen. It did more to allay her fears than anything he could have said. His thumb rose to trace over her cheek.

"Yeah. I'm sure…though, perhaps a little less so since you showed up," he quipped lightly. She couldn't help but giggle. After a moment she sobered, though a hint of a smile remained. Her own fingers moved to brush across his features, tracing the route her eyes had taken. He sighed softly at the contact, leaning into it, his eyes seeming to grow heavy. She nodded after a moment, inhaling deeply, the movement drawing his steel-blue gaze back to hers.

"Then—if you're at peace with it, so am I." Beside them one of the Wakandan doctors gestured quietly for James to stand. Nodding his understanding even as he didn't look away from Iris, he slid from the cot, straightening so that she had to look up to see his face. Grudgingly he lifted his hand from her waist, allowing the doctor to see to the IV. Her arms circling lightly around his waist, she tucked herself against his left side even as Steve approached.

"You ready, Buck," the Captain asked quietly. Taking a deep breath James nodded, a silent exchange passing between the two friends as each glanced back toward the windowed wall in turn. A small collection of people had gathered, but Iris paid them little mind, her attention reserved for James alone. Nothing and no one else mattered just then.

Finally, a deep breath sighing through him, James glanced down to Iris. Somehow she managed a reassuring smile. Nodding, Steve clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder before stepping to the side. Beyond him a technician was doing one final check on the cryostasis unit before giving the okay to the nearest doctor. And as soon as she had the confirmation, the doctor glanced over to James, telling him it was ready. A trace of trepidation flickered over his face as James looked to the doctor. Iris' fingers tightened, his white top bunching in her grip. And then James' hand settled over her hand, loosening her fingers before trailing up her arm.

"I'll be fine," he murmured, looking down at her again, his expression reassuring before it grew uncertain. "You'll—could you…" Iris' watched the emotions playing across his face. Reaching up she brushed back the strands of dark hair that had fallen into his face before leaning up to place a small kiss on his cheek. The corner of his lip tugged, his eyes warm as they scanned across her features, as though memorizing them. He leaned down, his forehead brushing against hers a final time, his eyes sliding shut.

"Iris," he breathed, "please stay." A sound somewhere between a laugh and a sob bubbled out of her as she nodded fervently. A relieved sigh eased from his chest as he leaned down the rest of the way, capturing her mouth in one last, poignant kiss.

Everything was in that kiss; hope, regret, grief, promise…love. He hadn't said it, but as his mouth moved with hers—their breath mingling as his lips tugged and melded with hers as she tilted her head to deepen the kiss, her tongue darting out for a quick, electric taste—she knew. He loved her too. As he pulled away, his breath coming in gentle pants, her arms circled around his neck, hugging him close.

"I'll be here when you wake up," she breathed against his cheek.

And then he was climbing into the unit. Iris wrapped her arms around herself, forcing herself to keep calm as the doctor and a technician fastened the pale grey strapping within the pod around James, ensuring he was as comfortable as possible. He watched them work with guarded eyes, nodding in answer to their questions before sighing heavily and willing himself to relax as the unit cycled on with a low hum behind him. His lip tugged as his steel-blue eyes found Iris'. Somehow, she wasn't quite sure how she managed it, but she somehow smiled reassuringly back even as the glass access panel slid into place.

With one last, deep sigh, his eyes slid shut even as the pod sealed with a faint, puffing hiss. Within seconds the unit had done its work, the glass frosting over as the pod was flooded with super-cooled gas. Even through the misted glass panel, he looked peaceful. He might as well have been asleep. Beside her, Iris could practically feel Steve Rogers tense, his eyes fixed on James just as hers were.

After a few moments and the doctors and technicians declaring he was stable and the cryostasis a success, Steve finally shifted, his observant eyes glancing over to Iris. She sucked in a shuddering breath, meeting the Captain's gaze for a moment before turning back to James. He reached out, laying a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"You coming," he asked softly, nodding in the general direction of the door. Iris spared him another glance, knowing her eyes were likely too bright and a sudden welling of vulnerability was written on her face for all to see, before silently shook her head.

"No," she said softly, absently surprised that her voice didn't tremble even as her chest felt tight, "I'm going to stay."


	26. Epilogue

Even after coming out of some form of cryosleep more times than he could count, Bucky was never quite sure when he truly woke up. Every time it was a slow, torturous process.

His body would wake slowly, shocked and unhappy about its changing state, yet relieved not to be frozen anymore. His nerve endings flared and burned as they fired sporadically, readjusting to no longer being dormant. His muscles cramped and tightened of their own will, struggling to regain their coordination. His chest tightened and lurched, his diaphragm trying to remember the rhythm needed to breath properly. Sometime in there his mind would wake; disjointed, sluggish and uncomprehending. Yet he would not be fully aware for quite some time.

It was different this time, even if only just.

But then, this was also the first time he wasn't immediately subjected to memory-alterations before he was even aware enough to realize he was awake. Of course it was bound to be different.

The first time he opened his eyes all he saw was _bright_ , sending spears of pain lancing into his brain. His body, already sore and throbbing, jerked, agitated as his instinct to fight to regain control over his body took over as he was jolted back to consciousness. A ragged cry tore from his throat as his body revolted, twitching and spasming, his muscles wrenching painfully taut. But he was uncoordinated and unbalanced and all but insensible, his breathing gasping and ragged as he sucked in breath after anxious breath. Almost immediately he was slipping under again, the shock too much for his abused body.

The last sensation he was aware of was a slim hand brushing his hair back, warm and gentle on his still cool skin.

The next time he was aware again, he knew better than to just open his eyes. He waited, testing and stretching his mind.

Though disjointed and all but incomprehensible, everything came back.

That alone surprised him. One thing he did clearly remember was that he shouldn't have his mind as his own. He remembered trying to remember, only to come up with a prickling, throbbing nothing as his brain still shuddered from the piercing electrical currents it had been subjected to. There was none of that this time.

But then he was wishing he didn't remember. Memories crashed through him, each seeming more painful and horrifying than the last, drowning out the few bright ones, the few good ones. He fought to cling to those ones; ones with stars and fairground rides, laughing boys and pretty girls, friends and drinks in smoky pubs; ones with pizza and sunflowers.

And then he was out again, the last, flashing memories ones of a skinny, loyal boy and a determined, trusting woman with sparkling hazel eyes.

When at last he woke for real, he remembered.

He remembered Steve, his best friend. He remembered growing up together, rarely apart and always depending on each other. He remembered the outbreak of war, of fearing what would happen to his frail friend if he was shipped off to the front lines. He remembered Steve rescuing him, his body miraculously strong and, well, huge compared to the last time he'd seen him. He remembered fighting side by side as he never dreamed possible.

He remembered remembering Steve. Those memories hurt. They followed everything he wished he could forget. They followed memories of him trying and nearly succeeding in killing his best friend. He remembered breaking free from the compulsion to finish that mission. He remembered laying Steve on the bank of the river, not knowing then why he was so relieved when the prone man before him had taken a choking breath, water coughing free from his lungs. He remembered fighting to regain every last one of those memories from their childhood and adolescence in Brooklyn, of their time fighting together against HYDRA. But eventually he had remembered, and he still had those memories now.

And he remembered her.

He remembered everything about her. He remembered the soft warmth of her in his arms, of the cheerful sound of her laughter. He remembered the sometimes wicked twinkle in her eyes. He remembered the earnest way she'd looked at him when she told him he wasn't a monster because of what he'd done. He remembered the shock of realizing that she'd followed him to Berlin, even after the horrible way he'd left her.

He remembered the taste of her as she kissed him.

He remembered her unwavering gaze as the glass panel of the stasis unit slipped shut.

He remembered asking her to stay.

He remembered her promising with and without words that she would.

He inhaled deeply, fighting back the welling ache in his chest that he couldn't name as anything other than anticipated disappointment. There was no telling how long he had been under. There's no way she would have stayed. She couldn't have. It wouldn't be fair to her, to expect it of her. No. He couldn't allow himself to expect her to be there.

He inhaled again and opened his eyes.

The breath that rushed from his chest was nearly a sob.

She was there.

She sat at his side, her hand raising to brush his hair back from his face before settling along his jaw as her beautiful lips curved into a smile. He leaned into the contact, his breath shuddering out of his chest as he raised his hand, tentatively ghosting his fingers across her cheek. He could barely believe the relief and the love written so plainly across her face.

"You stayed," he croaked, his voice rough with disuse. Her smile widened before she leaned down to place a kiss first on his forehead, then against each eyelid and each cheek before pressing her soft, sweet mouth to his. He drank her in, every caress of her lips intoxicating, the warmth it sent flooding through his body, making him feel alive.

Her kiss made him feel whole.

"Of course I did," she responded as she drew back, a faint laugh in her voice as her eyes twinkled happily.

"You asked me to."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! I sincerely hope you have enjoyed reading "Please Stay" as much as I enjoyed writing it!
> 
> First thing's first: I don't have the words to adequately thank you all for leaving kudos, bookmarking, subscribing, commenting and, most importantly of all, for reading!
> 
> Sadly, this is, for the time being, the end of Iris and Bucky's story. However, I am determined to eventually, once there are more movies for me to build off of, continue on with their story. But for now this is where we leave our dear reunited couple.
> 
> But it's not exactly the end, either. I have several more stories planned that will take place in the same FanFiction Story-verse that I am building within the MCU. Please Stay is just the beginning, really. The its first companion story, The Ghost, is posting every Friday. Its OC, Nadine, has already made her debut in Please Stay, during the fight in Berlin, and I fully intend Iris to make an appearance in The Ghost. Even though it's ultimately going to feature a SteveOC pairing, Bucky does feature quite prominently. After all, who can resist more Bucky! I sincerely hope you'll all consider giving it a try, and if you do, I hope you'll enjoy it just as much as Iris and Bucky's story!
> 
> To wrap up this last of my super long A/N I just want to Thank You all again. I truly don't have the words to describe just how honoured I am for everyone who read my little(but rather time intensive and steadily growing) bit of fun. It really is unbelievable, the support and encouragement I have received over the course of posting this story. 
> 
> It means so much to me to share my stories and see other people enjoying the stuff that comes out of my overactive imagination.
> 
> I hope you'll leave me a lovely little review if you enjoyed, which I hope you did! :)
> 
> And one final time, Thank you all. I hope our *virtual* paths cross again.
> 
> Happy Reading, my friends!
> 
> DarkLadyAthara

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Thanks for reading!
> 
> I'd love to hear what you thought!


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